


Twelve Nights

by blarghe



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/F, Fluff, Inspired by Hallmark Christmas Movies, Love Stories, M/M, Modern AU, Nerds in Love, The True Meaning of Christmas, gay holiday romps, happy ending guaranteed, holiday fluff, some kind of generic wintery holiday anyway, subplots for socialists
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:21:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 63,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28353831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blarghe/pseuds/blarghe
Summary: Modern au fic where BusinessMan McMoneybanks Dorian Pavus meets LocalArtist Outdoorsyguy Taren Lavellan whilst on a trip to a Fancy Ski Resort In The Mountains with his Terrible Family, and learns the True Meaning of The Holidays (it's love).Rated M for not-too-explicit sex scenes and the eventual homophobia that comes with Mr. Halward Pavus. Trigger warnings as appropriate.Set in some kind of vaguely Thedasian modern au, with Dalish elves and dwarves and the like, but no actual magic, only *~holiday magic~*--The mountains loomed quietly, shining in orange and peach with dark evergreen trees blanketing around their roots, and among them little golden lights from mountainside cabins were glowing softly through the snow. It was beautiful and serene, like a scene directly out of a holiday card, and Dorian hated every single thing about it.
Relationships: Dagna/Sera (Dragon Age), Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 29
Kudos: 26





	1. Love at First Night

The air was crisp, and perfectly still. The _thunk_ of Dorian’s car door slamming shut sounded out soft, almost muffled by the quietness of the snow-covered street. There were no other cars parked in the tiny lot in the centre of it, which divided two rows of quaint little shops on either side. The street rejoined itself around the empty parking lot and wound away in either direction. The side streets that branched in awkward zigzagging patterns off of it, sparsely lined with picturesque little cottages with wide yards of snow between them, weren’t even plowed. The main road ran up and down; up, winding slowly through a forest of trees and disappearing into the mountainside, and down, towards a glowing town square lit up at its centre by a tall, festively decorated pine tree. 

Dorian watched his breath form a cloud of mist in front of him, and pressed the little button on his keychain. His car’s lights flashed, and the horn beeped once, obnoxiously loud against the silent scene. For a moment, he glanced up the road, and then lifted his head higher, arching his head way back to take in the peaks of the mountains overshadowing the quiet town. The sky was fading into sunset, and pink light glowed through the trees and sparkled off the snow in the distant mountaintops. The mountains loomed quietly, shining in orange and peach with dark evergreen trees blanketing around their roots, and among them little golden lights from mountainside cabins were glowing softly through the snow. It was beautiful and serene, like a scene directly out of a holiday card, and Dorian hated every single thing about it. 

He sighed, breath forming a long whispering mist from his mouth and disappearing into the air, and rubbed his hands together. He scanned the shops on the street before him, windows all dark, signs all turned round to ‘closed’, and then with another, more irritated little sigh, looked at his watch. 

Half past four, said the large gold analogue contraption on his wrist. He sighed again, and strode forward across the street, his shoes slipping awkwardly against the packed down snow. He stepped up onto the sidewalk and frowned at the crunch of coarse salt under his foot. Then he glanced up and down the line of shops one more time, his eye landing on the only lit window on the whole street, and with one last heavy sigh, walked carefully towards it. 

The buildings looked old; stone foundations with thick wood or brick walls, mostly two stories tall with little apartments slotted in above, and topped with high-pointed dutch roofs complete with smoking chimneys. He passed a dark-windowed chocolatier with displays of intricate candy ornaments and gold foil wrapped chocolates in the window, and a bakery with windows decorated with paper snowflakes and quintessentially charming gingerbread houses. All closed as of four in the afternoon. 

"Ridiculous." He muttered aloud to the empty street. 

The open shop, when he came to it, had a large sculpture of a wooden bear in the window, and a tower of suede moccasins on display. _Lavellan's Crafts_ , said a sign on the door. Looking in through the window he could see more display stands; postcards and keychains and little animal figurines. 

Fantastic, thought Dorian bitterly, a chintzy souvenir shop. Just what he needed. 

He pushed the heavy wooden door open, and it grunted on its hinges as his feet stomped over the welcome mat. And it was a _Welcome!_ mat, woven out of some coarse fabric and dotted with thematic pine cones and holly leaves, the happy greeting stencilled on in uncomplicated calligraphy. 

The warmth and the smell of the place washed over him immediately. The walls were left unpainted, beautiful old wood varnished and shining in the warm incandescent light from an intricate wooden chandelier that hung overhead. A nearby shelf littered with artisanal scented candles and boxes of "genuine" incense sticks wafted out a mix of bold scents; patchouli, sage, maple, pine. He moved away from it, scanning the other shelves and displays. 

Beaded decorations and wind chimes hung in one window, and further into the shop, past the little rotating displays of animal figurine keychains and greeting cards, larger items stood out with hefty price tags. Large canvases displayed boldly painted landscapes of the local scenery in all seasons, and portraits of rustic looking elves engaging in various traditional activities. His eyes lingered on the paintings a little too long, caught up in the crisp lines and bright colours. The people all had joy on their faces; rosy cheeks and bright eyes, dancing in colourful dresses that very nearly looked to be moving. As he stood struck by their expressiveness, he almost forgot to remain unimpressed. 

He picked up a bar of handmade soap scattered with gritty bits of lavender, sniffed it, and put it back down. Then he wandered over to a display of wooden tree ornaments, and spun it absently, watching the little wolves and caribou and bears sway about. 

"Looking for something specific?" Said a soft voice out of a dark nook behind the counter at the back of the shop. 

Dorian turned to look with a start, and before he could think better of it, he complained.

"Got anything that says ' _happy holidays, thank you so much for dragging me out to the frozen middle of nowhere to spend the holidays working out of some stuffy old cabin that doesn't even get cell service. Not that it matters, since the entire dull little village shuts down at four in the afternoon and in all probability there won't be anywhere for miles to find decent company or a decent brandy'_?" He asked. Then with a twinge of self-aware guilt for his attitude, he amended the rant with a vaguely apologetic "no offence". 

Behind the counter, the soft voice was laughing. Then an elf came into view, leaning his elbows over the counter and looking at Dorian with sparkling green eyes. He kept laughing, chuckling mildly under his breath and shaking his head so that golden light danced off the messy curls of his dark red hair. His face was tattooed, like the elves in the paintings, and they glowed against his warm-toned skin. Dorian had never seen work like it in real life, and once again found his eye lingering a little too long.

"Sorry, I don't think so." The elf said finally, a sideways smirk resting on his full lips, "but the shop down the street sells chocolate truffles filled with brandy that are quite nice. They don't open again until ten tomorrow, of course. Can I interest you in a postcard of our dull little village, instead?" 

Dorian's cheeks burned, and not half because of the chiding tone of the shopkeeper's rebuttal. Mainly, he was busy getting hot at just how striking those eyes were; how they glittered across the room at him with perfectly patient bemusement. 

He sighed. "Apologies. Long drive." He muttered, quickly grabbing an ornament carved like two fish swimming after each other's tails, and a wintery postcard decorated with a photograph of the tree in the town square. He walked himself up to the counter and set the items down, hastily digging into his pocket for his wallet and avoiding the elf's still-penetrating gaze. 

"If it's for someone you don't like, you should go with the wolf." Remarked the elf, still leaning his elbows on the counter and making no moves to ring him up, or stop smirking. "Around these parts, we tell stories about a Dread Wolf who tricks tourists into getting lost in the mountains." His smirk broadened. 

"Then why put it on an ornament?" 

The elf shrugged. "They're good stories." His soft voice lilted with an accent Dorian couldn't place, musical and sweet, but there was still a good deal of cheek to his tone. "Actually, the wolf represents strength and loyalty. The Dread Wolf is just a local legend." Then he winked at him, and slid the postcard across the counter to the register. 

"Strength and loyalty." Dorian shook his head, "and fish?" 

"Balance." 

Balance. As in work-life? Ironic, given the intended recipient. "I'll stick with the fish." 

"That everything?" 

Dorian nodded. 

"Hold on, I think I have something in the back that might interest you." The elf disappeared into his dark little nook and through a storeroom door, the teasing smirk never once leaving his face. When he came out again he was holding a single gold foil wrapped chocolate, and he nudged it across the counter with a friendly nod. "Happy holidays." He said, and the smile on his face shifted into one that was somewhat less amused, and more sincere. 

Dorian took the chocolate tentatively, and finished paying for the ornament and card. It totaled more than he would have expected for some faux-Dalish tourist fare, and he took a second to properly look over the ornament before tucking it into his pocket. No factory logo, just the initials TL burned into the wood. So maybe it wasn't quite a _chintzy_ souvenir shop. 

"This all local?" He asked, suddenly feeling a new wave of guilt over his earlier disparaging comments. 

The very obviously Dalish elf in front of him raised an eyebrow and nodded. "There's a collective." 

He plucked two business cards and a pamphlet out of the brochure stand in front of his cash register, and slid them across the counter. The business cards had gallery names on them, and the pamphlet advertised the services of a local community centre, including an ongoing holiday craft fair. Dorian glanced over the rest of the brochures in the stand. There were a few other business cards for local shops, and pamphlets for companies offering various adventure packages; mountain climbing, horseshoe tours, trail rides. 

The elf's gaze followed him with a faint degree of amused judgment, and the expression fell on his striking features in a way that made Dorian's throat dry. He cleared his throat, picked out a general ‘Village Businesses’ brochure from the stand and smoothed out his expression. It was entirely unfair, this striking elf looking at him like that. He could fix this. 

"Well, now I've made a fool of myself, can I more humbly ask for a recommendation?" He passed the brochure over the counter with a gracefully apologetic smile. 

The elf unfolded the page on the countertop. Then grabbed a pencil from somewhere out of that mess of hair, and flashed him a quick, toothy grin before bending over it and beginning to circle and scribble away. 

"This might help keep you from getting bored, even without cell service. When do you leave?" 

Dorian's heart jumped at the retort, and the elf glanced up at him with another quick flash of taunting teeth.

“In about two weeks.” He answered roughly, throat dry again. 

The elf passed back the brochure, and tucked the pencil back into a braid behind his ear with a slight frown. “Not really enough time, but hopefully you can manage to enjoy some of it.” He said, leaning back and smirking again. Dorian went back to feeling flushed. “But we close in five minutes.” Of course you do, he thought. "If you want, I could show you where to get a good beer, if not good brandy.” Oh. 

"Thank you." He stuck with gracious, charming. "I would appreciate that." 

"I'll close up." The elf disappeared into the back and reemerged a moment later wearing a sturdy looking winter coat, and just finishing the process of wrapping a thick knitted green scarf around his neck and up over his chin. 

Dorian followed him, glancing about at the art a little more closely now as he made his way out of the shop. The elf flicked several light switches and held the door open for him on his way out, and Dorian pulled his own scarf around tighter as he waited for him to lock the shop's door. A mostly useless gesture, given that the fine, silky material of his scarf did little against the cold. Outside, the elf looked him over in a deliberate scan from top to bottom, smirked some more, and extended his hand. 

"Taren." He said, then added, as Dorian shook his hand, "you should get boots." 

Dorian looked down at his shiny, black, and slightly pointed shoes. "Dorian." He answered, and glanced towards his car, where a pair of boots he'd never actually worn sat packed away in his luggage. "I have boots." 

Taren squinted and cocked his head. "You should put them _on."_

"I'm fine." He insisted, and Taren's smirk returned. 

The elf shook his head. "If you say so. Come on, we'll walk down the plowed streets." 

Dusk had fallen while he was in the shop, and as evening set in, the street lamps and strings of holiday lights decorating the small village's main street came on, bouncing bright and colourful off the snowy scenery. Taren led him toward the town square, under the shining tree and then around a corner, off some winding side street that was more _packed down_ than _plowed_ , and finally up to the doors of a squat and shabby looking brick building thumping with the muffled sounds of live music. The frosted windows inlaid in the brick glowed with more of that inviting golden light, and a wreath of holly hung merrily on the little pub's door. Taren pulled the door open, and ushered Dorian inside. 

Dorian quickly tried to knock the snow off his shoes, stamping his feet and wiping his heels on the carpet inside the door. The whole walk had taken maybe five minutes, but he could already feel cold numbness spreading up his toes. Besides the collection of bearded old men playing something folkish on fiddles and acoustic guitars, the pub was rather sparsely populated. A few patrons sat chatting at the bar, and some others were tucked away into deep conversations in dimly lit booths. Dorian resisted the urge to sigh again, and straightened his posture in the comfort of being indoors. All this cold weather was starting to make him hunch over. 

Taren strode confidently up to the bar while Dorian was still unbuttoning his coat, and before Dorian could even attempt to be gracious again, his host was waving him toward a shabbily upholstered booth seat in the corner with two pints of dark frothy liquid in his hands. 

Taren took off his coat and scarf and shoved them aside, wedged between himself and the wall beside him on his side of the booth. But Dorian, in the absence of a proper coat rack, kept his long black wool coat on, and untied his scarf so that it draped loosely over his neck. He took up his pint and held it aloft a moment. 

“Cheers.” He said, and Taren clinked his own pint against his with a nod before taking a sip. 

“It’s local,” Taren noted, as Dorian drank.The dark ale glided smoothly down his throat, with hints of chocolate and deep, nutty flavours that melted on the tongue. 

“It’s good.” He admitted. “I’m sure I don’t deserve this.” He offered up another gracious smile, and Taren returned it warmly. 

“So, what misfortune brings you out to the frozen middle of nowhere, Dorian?” 

“Work,” Dorian sighed out unhappily, and then unhappier still, “and family.” 

Taren raised an eyebrow at him. “Which is worse?” 

“I work for my father.” 

“Ah.” 

Dorian leaned back, observing the elf as he took another slow drink of his beer. “Halward Pavus.” He expanded, watching carefully, “maybe you’ve heard of him?” Taren shook his head, and Dorian felt a wave of relief. One advantage to being stuck out in the middle of nowhere: absolutely no one to care who his father was. “Consider yourself lucky.” 

“What do you do?” 

“Venture capital.” Taren looked at him, seemingly awaiting further explanation. “We have a lot of money, we use it to make more.” 

“Sounds boring.” 

“Painfully.” 

“So why do you do it?” The elf leaned in, eyes still sparkling even in the dim light. 

Dorian glanced away. Here in some dusty little tavern tucked into the snowy mountainside, drinking cheap, but good, beer with someone who had absolutely no concept of who he was _,_ the reasons for his still being tied to the family business felt out of place. His history didn’t belong here any more than he did, and for once in his life, he distinctly did not feel like talking about himself. “It’s complicated.” He said. 

“Well, what do you like to do, then?” Taren moved on from the subject after giving him a long look with those glinting eyes, “not an outdoorsy sort, I take it.” 

Dorian stifled an embarrassed cough. “I can be adventurous. When I’ve a mind.” he countered. Taren raised an eyebrow at him again. “Mostly I prefer books.” He admitted, humbling himself a little under Taren’s gaze. The elf lit up.

“There are some great ones detailing the history of the land around here down at the library.” He suggested, “maybe something will spark your interest after all.” He smirked again, “or there are snowshoeing tours, if you’re feeling adventurous.” 

Dorian shivered at the thought. “Well you clearly love it here.” He took another sip of the beer, it was warming him nicely. 

“I do.” Taren confirmed with a smile. 

“Why?” Dorian replied invitingly, ready to let the friendliness of his host disprove his grumpy first impressions. Or at least, ready to watch him light up over something again. 

“You've seen the mountains, right?" He laughed. "This isn't the middle of nowhere, you know." He went on. "There's history, and culture. Dalish clans roamed these mountains and the surrounding plains for thousands of years, the People have been here for _Ages_.”

“I’ve been terribly unkind, it seems,” Dorian apologized, “please, set me straight.” He regarded Taren with a smirk of his own now, and just as he had hoped, the elf grinned. 

Taren jumped into an animated history of the village and its surroundings; the names of clans that had traversed them over the years, little bits of local legend and ancient myth, even telling Dorian about the trade and innovation brought about by different travelling peoples through the ages. Dorian leaned in, asking questions here and there and feeling warmth spread further up his cheeks with every sip of good ale, and every flash of the elf’s enthusiastic smile. 

“You sound more like an anthropologist than a shopkeeper.” He remarked, impressed, as Taren wound down his raving speech with a somewhat sheepish look. 

“I am one, sort of. I did my thesis on different Dalish oral traditions,” he shrugged, “I’ve travelled a bit.” 

He sounded like someone who could teach a _course_ on Dalish history, not just write a thesis. In fact Dorian felt he had somehow fallen into the midst of the most intellectual conversation he’d had since leaving school, and that Taren’s impassioned conversation belonged more to some vast lecture hall back home than to this dim little tavern. Dorian felt a quick pang of nostalgia; missing the days when impassioned conversations about new and fascinating subjects were a regular part of his life. So much for not being able to find decent company. 

“But you came back here to...work at a store?” He couldn’t help the air of disbelief in his voice, and Taren suddenly lost his smile. 

“I _own_ the store.” The elf answered pointedly. Dorian hid his embarrassment under another swallow of beer. 

“Sorry. It’s a lovely store. Can’t be much money in selling baubles to tourists though, even finely crafted ones.” 

Taren chuckled and gave his head a shake, hair bouncing about his pointed ears. “Not much money in cultural anthropology either. There’s an artistic community here, and that’s what I wanted to do.” He shrugged, “this is where my family is.” 

“That --” Dorian couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so flustered by his own fumbling for words. “That really is lovely.”  
  
“We sell souvenirs to tourists to keep things running, but you should check out those galleries while you’re here. You’ll see.” 

Dorian nodded, remembering the business cards he’d slipped hastily into his wallet. “Who does the paintings?” He asked, genuinely intrigued by the idea of visiting an art gallery where nothing was vaulted or gilded or carved from marble, for a change. “The ones in your shop?” 

Taren’s eyes flashed over him with the glint of some secret satisfaction, and he smiled again. “I do.”

Dorian took a moment to regain his composure under another sip of beer, and then returned his eyes with a gaze that he hoped would smoulder the way it was supposed to. Usually it did, but everything about this place, this _person_ , seemed to be out of his element. 

“You’re rather impressive.” He said, smooth and complimentary, voice low. The elf’s smile turned sheepish, and Dorian leaned in with another burning compliment. “I’d love to see more of your work.” 

\----

Dorian bought the second round, and ventured into talking a little more about himself, as Taren asked him about his interests and hobbies rather than about his work or family or the complexities of social status. They talked about their studies, trading travel stories and discussing books, and Dorian soon forgot his disappointment at the lack of bottle service or dance floors. All the while he leaned in closer, warming up under the influence of the ale, the coat he still hadn’t taken off, and the rippling laughter that seemed to continuously pour out of Taren’s mouth. Time wound on without his ever checking the large gold watch on his wrist, and before he knew it, the band had packed up and left, along with all the other patrons. 

“Last call!” A gruff voice called over from the bar, and Taren turned with a wave before shifting to gather up his coat and scarf again. Dorian started. They had barely finished two pints, nursing them slowly though they had been, and they’d arrived no later than five thirty in the evening. 

“It’s eleven thirty.” He remarked, finally looking at his watch. Surprised at once by how early and how _late_ it was. He pushed away the very brief but nagging thought that he was meant to be somewhere else. 

“Bar closes at midnight.” Taren shrugged. “Why, what time do they close back home?”

“Two, three in the morning, at least.” 

Taren laughed, standing up and shrugging into his heavy coat. “Well, I wouldn’t mind your company for a while longer,” he remarked suggestively. “Coffee?” 

Dorian stood too, buttoning his coat and readjusting his scarf even though he was already swelteringly warm. He nodded in answer, hoping that c _offee_ meant the same _not coffee_ thing here that it meant back home, and tried to keep his smile from looking too eager.

The cold air hit his face with a refreshing chill as they exited the pub, but in the length of time that it took him to breathe out two more puffs of visible air, _refreshing_ turned to _painfully cold_. He could feel his nostrils sticking together when he breathed in, and he was pretty sure icicles were about to start forming on his eyelashes when he blinked. Taren glanced over at him as he crossed his arms tight over his body and shuffled his feet, and Dorian could just make out the edge of his smirk poking out from under his great fluffy scarf. He scowled jealously. 

Taren took his elbow, patting a thick-mittened hand up over his arm and nudging him to turn towards him, then he lifted the other hand to his shoulder, and the fur lining of his unfairly warm-looking mitten stroked soft against his cheek. The hand gripped, Taren pulled himself up on the toes of his feet (which were tucked away into large, sturdy boots), and kissed him. 

Taren’s nose bumped against Dorian’s, somehow still warm against his practically numb face, and his lips pressed delicate and soft up against his. The knit of Taren’s thick scarf padded the meeting of their faces, cushioning Dorian’s chin against the sudden kiss. His own lips responded hungrily, and Taren’s lips pulled at his again, slow but eager. His arms fell out of their tight clutch around his body, and a hand landed on Taren’s waist, or on the layers of fabric and padding between him and his waist, anyway. He pulled him in closer, and kissed him again. When Taren pulled away, rocking back onto his heels and grinning as he pulled his scarf quickly up over his chin and mouth, Dorian’s release of him was slow, reluctant.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all night.” Taren said, still holding to his elbow as he turned to begin walking. Dorian kept pace with him in stunned silence, the cold apparently having halted the functioning of his brain. Or maybe it was not the _cold_. 

“I could do that all night.” He finally replied, though his smooth tone was hampered somewhat by the stiffness that had returned to his posture. 

\----

Taren led him back to the shop the same way they came, pulling him by the elbow, steadying him as his feet slipped and slid over the packed snow and fresh ice forming on the sidewalks. They passed under strings of colourful lights and warm-glowing lamp posts, and the tree in the town square lit them both up as they passed under it. As Dorian looked up at it, and ahead of himself to Taren’s well-insulated profile, he felt a smile creep over his shivering lips. 

Taren pulled him around to the side of the shop, unlocked a door and went on skipping up a flight of narrow steps inside, while Dorian flexed his hands in his pockets and attempted to tap the snow off his shoes. His feet felt stiff as he followed the elf up the stairs, and when he bent to untie his laces and remove his shoes inside the apartment at the top, his fingers were numb and clumsy. As soon as he looked up again, Taren’s hand was back on his arm, pulling him into the apartment, and into another hungry kiss. Taren had already removed his coat and boots, and Dorian all but threw his coat aside as he chased after him for more. 

Free from the hindrances of heavy padding and slippery surfaces, Dorian found his balance again. One kiss became another, and kisses became laden with heavy breathing and strong pulls of lips and light grazings of teeth. His hands took their hold at Taren’s waist properly, then at his hips, over his ass, into the belt loops of his jeans. Taren pulled him by the scarf, laughing as he discarded it over a chair in the flash of a living room that they stumbled by on the way down a narrow hall. Dorian’s heart stuttered with the music of his laugh, and he retaliated by pushing the elf up against the wall of the hallway for a long moment, pressing his lips into the warm skin of his neck and moving his hands up his torso, over a too-thick sweater, then under it. Taren laughed under him, squirming with tickled amusement at the touch of Dorian’s cold fingers on his bare skin. He pressed his lips into Dorian’s slowly warming cheek, then back onto his mouth, opening for him and playing with his tongue for too brief a moment before pulling away to laugh as Dorian’s hands tickled his warm skin again. He nodded his head to one side, closed a hand over Dorian’s wrist, and pulled him along again into a room that was mostly taken up by a low bed. 

\----

They fell onto the bed in a jumbled heap of laughter and limbs, on top of one another, digging at clothes and pressing together with kiss after hungry kiss. The bed was tidy, its surroundings simple. Artwork covered the walls, the scent of pine filled the air, and a dim lamp by the bed lit the room in an ambient yellow. Dorian lifted the sweater from Taren’s body with less tickling, and more directness, and then Taren was at the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with deliberate slowness and that _infuriating_ smirk on his lips. Dorian kissed it off of him, and before he knew it he was on top of him, roughly pawing at jeans and shorts and feeling his own blood rushing at the feel of Taren’s hands sliding down over his hips. 

The tattoos on Taren’s face spread down his neck and over his body, sprawling out over his chest and winding around his ribs and up his back. Dorian’s mouth moved downward, lips grazing over the complex designs that covered tight muscles and freckled skin. 

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he muttered, before he could think better of it. 

Taren chuckled again, under him. His hands swept through Dorian’s hair and the breath of his laughter shook in his chest. 

“I mean it.” Dorian said, lifting his eyes up to catch Taren’s and losing his own breath in how they sparkled back at him. 

Taren lifted him up, took his face in his hands and his lips to his mouth and filled him; filled him with a desperate tongue and with desperate thoughts. 

There was a feeling that Dorian chased, that he loved, that he _ached_ for. A truth he could only ever find for a moment, for a brief second of fire and life and uninhibited lust. A forbidden feeling, a dark eruption of heat in his chest and gasps caught in his throat. Not the release, not the ‘happy ending’; finding that was easy enough, but something just before it. The closeness of his body to another, the tight press of ribs on ribs and hips on hips, the fantastic swell of feeling overtaking thought. Muscles and smooth skin, a strong arm, a hard jaw. There was _nothing_ like a man. 

He caught a glimpse of the time as he tossed aside his watch; six hours. Six hours he had spent with this unexpected person, laughing and talking away a night that for weeks he had been dreading. When he kissed him now, the time felt immeasurably long and impossibly short. Each touch exciting, and even fumbling, exploring with rebellious impatience a stranger’s skin in a stranger’s bed. And yet comfortable, awake and sober and just _good_ , laughing as noses bumped and cold hands tickled, gentle speech between every new step. 

“This ok?” Taren’s hands on his thighs, his clothes pushed to the edge of the bed, reaching for more. 

“More than.” 

“Hold on, I have --” His partner took care of lubrication, and protection, and then took care of _him._ Taren used his hands and his mouth on him with such skill that Dorian almost let himself lose his composure entirely, advancing towards his edge and groaning into his chest. Then he spun him and turned him until he was over his back, tracing swirls of tattoo under his fingers, and asked gently if he could have more.  
  
“ _Fuck_ yes,” came the enthusiastic reply, and then Dorian really did lose himself. Taking pleasure and giving it, clawing into Taren’s skin to try to hold onto that feeling just a little longer. 

They finished like they had started, in a jumbled heap of laughter and limbs, now with more colour in their cheeks and faster breath. Dorian unwound himself from the tangle of Taren’s legs, and rolled over to steady his thoughts.

He stared up at the ceiling, satisfaction and guilt curling up around him like they always did, making themselves a comfortable home in the pit of his stomach. 

\----

“Shit, I’m starving,” Taren breathed beside him, lying with his legs spread and his bare chest glinting with sweat in the yellow light. He propped himself up on his elbows and turned to look over Dorian. “Food?” He suggested, and without waiting for an answer he hopped up, scrounged in the pile of clothes they’d left scattered over the foot of his bed, pulled on his shorts, and practically skipped out of the room. 

Dorian lay still catching his breath for a while, then rose too. He stepped into the tiny bathroom that opened off the hallway to the bedroom, and took in his flushed reflection in the mirror. He almost laughed aloud, catching his mussed hair and the swollen red mark of a hard kiss forming its bruise on his collarbone, and shook his head. He recomposed himself, splashing water on his face and taming his tailored moustache before he returned to the room to retrieve his own clothes. By the time he was dressed, the fragrant scent of warm food had begun drafting in from the apartment beyond. He found his watch and pulled on his socks, then plodded curiously out into the hall until he came out to the living room at the other end, and leaned against the wall. 

Taren’s apartment was, in a word, tiny. In a more complimentary word, it was _cozy_ . The living room combined itself with a kitchen, in that toward one end of it a short line of countertop sported a sink and a stove, with cupboards on the wall above and a fridge nestled into the corner. Instead of a dining _room_ he had a small dining table. It was set with two chairs, but cluttered up with books and an empty mug and a tall candle and some scattered mail. Then there was a couch, a crumpled tartan thing just big enough for two, draped over with a tattered looking crocheted blanket. Before the couch, where once might have expected to find an entertainment system, or at least a television, there was a small and absolutely ancient looking wood-burning fireplace. It was built like a cage of black metal, and currently sat empty, just a char of recently burnt wood sitting inside. A pile of hewn logs sat in a basket next to it, accompanied by the appropriate sorts of brushes and poking utensils. Next to that, decorated in popcorn strings and wooden ornaments and tinsel, sat a very small but exceedingly festive little tree. 

There were books everywhere. Two large shelves of them were set against the wall closest to him before it opened into the hall where he leaned, and their contents seemed to have overflowed onto every surface in the room. A thick hardcover sat open flat on the couch while another three were stacked up on a low coffee table in front of it. A cabinet poking out from beside the tree had another line of books neatly arranged on top of it, between two wooden bookends carved like bears, and a record player was tucked to their side with another paperback volume lying haphazardly over it’s cover. 

Taren was standing at the far “kitchen” end of the apartment, over the stove, stirring at something in a deep pan with a long wooden spoon. 

“What’s going on out here?” Dorian asked with playful curiosity. He breathed in, the scent of cooked tomato, garlic and herbs bringing out a pang of hunger in his stomach. His eyes traveled over Taren’s lean form, muscled back and sturdy thighs still out on display, and his mouth watered. 

Taren looked back at him, a soft smile on his lips and happy rosiness in his cheeks. “Leftover pasta,” he replied, and then turned around again to divide the contents of the pan into two bowls that had already been placed out on the counter beside him. He held one out in an offering gesture. 

Dorian glanced over at his coat on the hook by the door, and then back to Taren.

“Don’t tell me they don’t have leftovers where you come from.” Taren chided him, startling him from his halting consideration. Dorian laughed awkwardly, reluctant to admit that they _didn’t_. 

“Thanks.” He said, still hesitant as he made his way over to Taren and took the offered bowl. Taren moved to the small table and began quickly clearing it of clutter; moving the mug to the sink, the book and pile of mail to the coffee table, and lighting the candle with the flick of a match. He placed his own bowl down and turned back to the cupboards, finding two mismatched mugs which he also set out and then turning to pull a glass bottle of water from the fridge. 

Dorian watched him sort things out around the apartment, half naked and familiar, quickly floating about like he owned the place. Which of course he did, but he still moved around his home with a level of ease and comfort that struck Dorian as decidedly unnatural. 

“This is a little out of order, don’t you think?” Dorian remarked, watching him from where he stood, then observing the pasta in his bowl with apprehension. 

Taren chuckled. “You’ve never heard of a midnight snack?” 

“Do you treat all the men you take home like this?” Dorian bantered back, his amusement slowly loosening his feelings of awkwardness. 

Taren sat down at the table with his food. “More or less,” he winked at him. “What, no one’s ever reheated pasta for you before?” 

Dorian pulled out the other chair and took a careful seat. “You’d be the first.” He answered, still watching Taren in mild disbelief as the elf tucked into his food. 

It was rude to stare, so Dorian ate. As soon as he took the first forkful to his mouth, his stomach remembered just how long it had been since he’d eaten, and he had to restrain himself from digging in like a barbarian. The pasta was warm and well seasoned; mildly spiced and subtly sweet. It was frankly incredible, and he looked back up at Taren with renewed disbelief. A tight claw of emotion gripped around his chest; _jealous_ , almost angry. 

“This is delicious.” He said, trying to keep the jealous, angry surprise that didn’t deserve to be there out of his voice. 

Taren looked up at him and shrugged. “I can’t take the credit.” He said after a mouthful of water from his mug. The grip of unasked for emotion in Dorian’s chest lessened, but only a little. “My auntie Dee goes a little wild this time of year, cooking for everyone. I have at least seven more jars of sauce in my freezer.” He explained, talking between bites of food and resting his elbows comfortably on the table while Dorian picked gingerly at his noodles with his fork. 

“Well, this was all…” surprisingly perfect, he thought, “very satisfying.” He said instead, leaving a little pasta in his bowl and pushing it away, “but I shouldn’t overstay my welcome.” He stood up, and did his best to still stand straight while stiffly sticking his hands into his pockets. “Thank you for…” Breathe. He smiled graciously. “Thank you for proving me wrong tonight; you’ve been excellent company.” 

Taren blinked up at him, looking between him and his abandoned bowl with his lips falling into a surprised frown. Then at Dorian’s smile his brows furrowed, and he stood too. 

“You’re welcome,” he said, before picking up Dorian’s bowl and moving it to the counter next to his sink. The frown remained, and Dorian felt his own poised smile falling. “How long did you say you were in town?” There was an expectancy in the question, and blatant hopefulness in Taren’s eyes. Dorian swallowed.

“Well I’m here for work…” another flare of that uncomfortable jealousy shot through him, and he sighed, “to be quite honest, I doubt I’ll have much time at all for sightseeing, perhaps a free night or two.” The worst part was, he was only barely lying. “I will try to see the galleries though,” he smiled again, backing toward the door now, trying to look anywhere but at the elf’s unsettled eyes. “In truth, I missed an orientation dinner tonight,” he went on explaining; sometimes, the truth worked better than any excuse he could muster, and part of him was genuinely embarrassed at his irresponsibility in getting _waylaid_ . “So I’ll likely be landed with the worst of it. A _working retreat_ , my father’s calling it.” 

Taren’s eyes narrowed. “I hope I haven’t gotten you in trouble,” he said slowly, and he crossed his arms over that still-bare and _beautiful_ chest of his. He leaned back against the counter, an eyebrow raised. 

“Oh, I get myself into trouble often enough,” Dorian replied casually. “Missing a dinner is nothing.” But he would be in trouble; made to endure a lecture on punctuality and assigned a roster of foreign conference calls to answer at ungodly hours, most likely. 

Taren blinked at him, still frowning. “You’re staying at Frostback Lodge?” Whatever was written on his face didn’t come through in his tone, which remained surprised, but seemed to shift towards concern. He left the counter and turned to look out his window. Snow was falling softly, but heavy. It built up on the roofs of neighbouring buildings and the pavement of the street below. Dorian watched him consider it, frown shifting. 

“Yes,” Dorian answered slowly, 

“-- that’s the only place around big enough for _retreats_ .” Taren explained, then with a chuckle he shook his head, as Dorian stared at him. “You said _stuffy cabin_.” 

Dorian kept staring at him, still standing uncomfortably between his dining table and his doorway.

“You know that it’s still a bit of a drive, right?” Taren asked slowly, concern resuming its place in his expression.

Dorian shrugged. He was quite certain that he had just said something very offensive that for some reason the elf had overlooked, and he was not at all sure why he was being looked at like that. 

“Dorian, don’t take this the wrong way,” Taren smiled at him softly, “but I don’t _love_ the idea of you driving up the mountain in this.” 

“I really shouldn’t --” He fumbled at his excuse. 

“It’s steep, there are animals -- tourists _hit_ stuff. Look, they clear the main road early, I’m not trying to be…” Taren shrugged into a slight slouch, and raised a hand to twirl at his hair. “You’re welcome to stay. I’m going to shower, and you can make yourself comfortable. I’d just really rather you not drive.” He smiled again, warmer now, though he didn’t seem nearly as comfortable as he had been. Dorian sighed, still standing where he was as Taren turned to disappear quietly down the hall. He remained standing there, hearing the floors creak and the pipes groan as Taren started his shower, and he thought about leaving anyway. Walking to the window he looked out, shivered at the sight of snow falling over his car down in the little lot below, and sighed again. He sat down on the couch, perching near the edge of it and tapping his foot for a while before picking up a book. 

When Taren returned he was dressed in soft trousers and a t-shirt, and his long messy hair fell loose and wet around his shoulders. Dorian put the book down quickly, and Taren approached to sit on the couch. 

“You are far too hospitable.” Dorian said, shifting to give him room. 

Taren yawned. “I don’t know if I’ve made this clear, but I’ve actually been having a very good time.” He replied, smirking just a little. 

Dorian breathed out, and tried to relax. It had been easy enough to do before, but the longer he spent getting comfortable, the more that sense of nagging guilt grew in his mind. “So have I.” He said, and it was true, though he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the fact. 

Taren looked at him for too long a moment, then stifled another yawn. “Honestly, I’m exhausted,” he stretched an arm over his head, “here, I’ll put on a movie or something.” 

Taren got up, went over to the little cabinet sitting beside his tree, and opened it up. Then Dorian watched in partial horror as he revealed an absolute relic of a tube-television, and slipped a tape into an actual, honest-to-the-Maker, VCR. He shook his head, breathing out a laugh as Taren returned to his seat. Instinct and impulse took him over again, and he pulled the elf’s lean body into him, comfortable and close, the jealous nagging of his heart be damned. 

Taren fell asleep almost as soon as the opening credits began to roll, his head rolling onto Dorian’s shoulder. Then Dorian concentrated on the film, and tried not to think too hard about how at home he looked there, until things faded into black. 

\----

He may have pushed the nagging reminders of his mind aside, but he hadn’t erased them from his phone. Signal or no, Dorian’s phone still had its alarms, and as dawn broke one woke him with a startling fanfare of beeping from his coat pocket. 

He jumped up, swearing internally and silencing it before Taren could stir on the couch. Then he glanced out the window at the breaking dawn, and threw on his coat in a panicked hurry. Reaching into his coat pocket he felt the ornament and the card from the night before, and his heart skipped in his chest as he looked over the apartment and his eyes landed on the elf’s sleeping face, leaned into the back of the couch with dark hair falling over his eyes. He scribbled a note onto the postcard and left it carefully on the dining table, then as quietly as he could, he slipped out the door.


	2. Emerald Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taren and Dorian go skiing, and Dorian falls...

He forgot his scarf. 

After waking up to an empty apartment and a stiff crick in his neck, the first thing Taren Lavellan found was a postcard. It sat out on his dining table, scrawled over in thin, pointed script that was neat despite its being written in obvious haste. On it was written a cellphone number that wouldn’t work — by the owner’s own admission, a terse thank you, and an apologetic promise to try to find another free night, whatever that meant. He stared at it for a while, trying very hard not to let it fill him with disappointment; at least he’d taken the time to leave a note. The second thing he found, as he set himself to cleaning up the disarray of books and dishes around his apartment, was Dorian’s scarf. It had wound up underneath him in the night, and he found it crumpled up and slightly wrinkled, sticking out from between the cushions of his couch. 

Taren held it up and examined it, turning it over and checking the tag. It was soft and grey, with a subtle darker grey pattern printed onto it. The tag said _pure silk_ and sported a brand name that he vaguely placed as “fancy”. Taren frowned, folded it carefully, and finished cleaning his apartment. 

When that was done, he made coffee and a quick breakfast, and sat on his couch running over the events of the previous night as he ate it. Glancing, occasionally, over at the scarf. 

It was silly, really, to have any expectations of a man he had only just met, who would only be visiting his corner of the world for a couple of weeks. But he had kind of expected to at least see him off in the morning. He would have even offered to help him scrape the ice from his windshield. It was also probably silly, _very_ silly, to be forming any kind of premature attachment to such a man. Irresponsible, some might even say. Definitely overly sentimental. He sighed to himself, doing it anyway. 

Three things troubled him throughout the rest of his morning. First, the note. An undeniable connection had been made; he'd talked for _hours_ with that man, and not just rambled off on some embarrassing stream of thought, but actually discussed things. Interesting things! Dorian had actually read some of his favourite — and _o_ _bscure_ — books, and he had talked about _science_ and _history_ and said fine, complimentary things that made the tips of Taren's ears burn at their memory alone. That wasn't nothing. Yet he was gone in the morning with a halfhearted note. 

Second, that _look_ . The sudden shift in his composure, the worried glint in his eye. Taren was pretty sure he hadn't done anything to explain such discomfort. Still, if he _had_ done something, he wanted to know what. And more than that, whatever had happened, he still had the rest of the impossibly wonderful night to consider, and when he considered _that_ , all he wanted was another chance. He wasn’t sure whether to kick himself for missing something, or for getting so captivated in the first place. 

And finally, he worried about the scarf. Really, it was the apparent hurry and earliness of his guest's departure, more than the actual leaving of a scarf. But the scarf looked expensive, and even if it wasn't very practical it was still Dorian's, and he seemed like a man who cared about his things. Shiny shoes, flashy watch, tailored and impractical clothes; he would probably miss his fancy scarf. Its still being in Taren's apartment meant he had left suddenly, and without wanting to wake him. Exactly when had he left? Before the roads were plowed? He would count that as a fourth concern…

He worried a little too about the way Dorian had described the purpose of his trip, the dissatisfaction with which he avoided talking about his work. He had no place, of course, in worrying about a practical stranger's undisclosed personal life, but he still wondered at what kind of work-stress would have someone skipping company dinners only to rush off to compensate for the time as soon as… as soon as he'd had sex? Come to his senses? Taren frowned. He looked at the scarf again, then he bundled himself up in his coat and boots, grabbed the folded silk accessory, and headed out. 

The drive up the mountain was familiar, and Taren's van rumbled along the road contentedly. He watched the evergreen trees pass by and took care to take the winding curves of the road slowly, but the drive also gave him plenty of time to think. And he spent it, mainly, figuring out what he was going to say. Maybe he wouldn't say anything, just leave the scarf and a note of his own at the front desk and head off again; like a crazy person. But he wanted to say something, wanted to see Dorian and make sure he wasn't wrong about that _feeling_ , that _connection_ that had lit up his whole happy night, and maybe get some semblance of an explanation — like a crazy person. He sighed to himself, and rehearsed a few less-crazy sounding opening remarks aloud as he drove. 

Parking at the lodge cost fifteen dollars for the day. Day passes to enter the main lodge and access the hills cost another hundred and twenty-five. He paid his entrance fees and stepped inside the wide lobby, searching for a front desk or for anything that might point to some kind of company retreat.

Frostback Lodge was really a sprawling mess of tourist attractions: an expensive ski resort with an extensive network of ski hills, a main lodge, two large "chalets" for guests, both of which advertised various lavish amenities, such as saunas and restaurants and pools built on natural hot springs, and a collection of very expensive private cabins. He didn't visit it often, and almost never actually came in through the main lobby. 

The main lodge was busy with people. Lines formed for ski and snowboard rentals, and crowds gathered for lessons and tours. A little souvenir shop sat selling plastic keychains shaped like mountains inlaid with common names and mass produced stuffed animals; wolves and foxes and bears, some in little seasonal outfits. "Dalish" decor, most of which wasn't at all, decorated some of the shelves. He made his way reluctantly over, and peered his head inside. 

"Hey you," called out an excited voice from the cash register, and Taren smiled with relief. "Don't tell me you actually paid to get in here. Just to see me?" Sera bounced out from behind her counter, all messy blond hair and hyper energy, and greeted him with a shove to the arm. 

"How do you sell this stuff?" He took a stuffed bear wearing a little plaid lumberjack outfit off a shelf and flung it at her. She caught it midair and tossed it back so quickly that he fumbled his catch, and almost dropped it. Sera laughed loudly. 

"Rubbish, ain't it? 'Course we could sell more real stuff if more of you lot sold out to the big evil tourist trap." 

"Tourist trap's not evil, just tacky." Taren replied, throwing the stuffed animal at her again. She caught it and stuck out her tongue. 

"It is a bit." She said, "trust me. But auntie Jo sold out, look —" Sera pointed at a shelf behind her, "we've got her soaps now." 

Taren crossed his arms. 

"She got a great deal, don't worry, I made sure." 

"How did _you_ make sure?" He asked, shaking his head, "or have you unionized this whole place already?" 

Sera laughed and made a show of shushing him for effect, "I have my ways," she whispered, before cackling again. Taren put the unfortunate stuffed animal back on the shelf, laughing too, though still shaking his head. 

"So why are you here?" Sera asked him, stepping back to lean against her counter. 

"I'm…” He hesitated. In all honesty, he didn’t entirely _know_ , “meeting somebody." 

"Ooh, who? Where?" Sera waggled her eyebrows at him, and he rolled his eyes. 

"Just somebody." Taren replied, slightly flustered, "and I'm...not entirely sure." He admitted, beginning to blush as Sera's gaze focused in on him with laser precision. 

"Are we stalking? Can I help?" She teased, already pulling a "back in 5 minutes" sign that had been manually given an extra _1_ in sharpie before the _5_ , from under her counter. 

"No and _no,_ and —" at that moment, he caught sight of a familiar flash of dark hair and gold jewellery leaving an elevator and turning off towards a door marked _lounge_. He squinted after the figure it belonged to; tall, long strides, a high head and practised posture. It had to be him. "Never mind." He finished, all but jogging out of the shop after him. "Later, Sera!" He called behind him with a wave. 

"Yeah you’d better run," she called out in response, and Taren rolled his eyes as a few nearby tourists stopped to stare at them, unamused. 

\----

It was definitely Dorian. He sat at a long table by the far window, bent over a skinny laptop with his back turned to the entrance. The lounge was a big open space filled with couches and tables and multiple electric fireplaces, that on the west side was walled almost entirely in windows. The view looked out at the first line of hills open to skiers and the tiers of mountain peaks beyond, all awash in bright, sparkling snow. The floors were carpeted, the walls decorated with pictures of famous winter athletes that had once been guests, and the room smelled faintly of coffee, thanks to a row of automated hot drink machines available to guests near the entrance where he stood. For the season, there were also small decorative trees about — plastic ones, all decorated in the same silver and white tinsel — and matching garlands hung high over the windows. 

He took a deep breath, gave his head a shake, and strode over. Dorian didn't notice his approach. Even as he stood beside him, taking a little too long to muster up the nerve to speak, the tall man didn't look up from the spreadsheet that he was angrily staring down. Taren placed the folded scarf on the table, and slid it towards him. 

Dorian paused, looking down now at the scarf that had suddenly slid into his view. Then he looked up, and seeing Taren, flinched back in surprise. 

Taren smiled, doing his best to appear _not crazy_. "Hi," he said, "you um, left this." 

"I — what — _how_ —" 

Taren shrugged, feeling crazy. "I have friends who work here," because that made it better, as if that had anything to do with anything, "figured I'd just leave it at the front desk, but then you walked by so…" he fingered a stray curl of his hair, "hi." 

"Hi." Dorian replied slowly, "and thank you, and...sorry." 

There was a very real frown on Dorian's face, an _uncomfortable_ frown, and he was causing it. "It's nothing," he should _go_ , "you're busy, I should go." The words came out as a quiet mumble, and Dorian's frown deepened. Taren turned before his cheeks could burn too obviously, and made to quickly walk away. 

"Hold on," Dorian stood up, following him a step and then stopping him with a quick hand at his shoulder and the soft whisper of his name. "Taren,” Taren halted, cheeks on fire. “You came all the way up here, at least stay for coffee or something." 

He turned, and Dorian was smiling at him now. But it was just the charming inverse of his frown; an _uncomfortable_ smile. 

"Actual coffee." He amended with a nod towards the coffee pots and drink machines sitting by the lounge's entrance. 

Taren nodded slowly, and Dorian made his way over to the coffee machines while he trailed dumbly behind. 

Taren found a carafe of black coffee and picked a tall, white, ceramic mug from a tray, while Dorian chose a much smaller one and began the process of pressing buttons at one of the more complicated looking machines. Taren added milk and just a little sugar to his drink, while Dorian's machine whirred and sputtered away. 

"So, you drove up a mountain and bought a day pass just to return a scarf?" Dorian prodded him, looking him over with eyes that definitely thought he was crazy. 

Taren shrugged. "Seemed like a nice scarf," he said, "probably cost more than my day pass." 

Dorian chuckled, "I fear I shouldn't say." He admitted. 

"And I was...a little worried. About the roads." He shrugged again. 

Dorian looked at him curiously for too long, then picked up his cup of steaming, frothy, complicated button pressings, and began to walk back towards his table. They sat down, ceramic clinking delicately on the shiny, some-kind-of-painted-fiberboard table and knees not quite touching, and Taren took a slow, steadying sip of his coffee. 

"You were right," Dorian remarked, "I followed a snowplow up. Very twisty. Probably would have gone off a cliff in the dark." He smiled again, still more charm and tact than genuine warmth, then he fished something out of his jacket pocket. 

He really did look like he was working; clothed in an expensive-looking fitted suit and black tie, thin, gold-framed glasses resting on the bridge of his excellent nose, sitting at his table with a briefcase and a skinny silver laptop which he'd shut and pushed aside. A man who goes to a lot of meetings. Taren was undoubtedly dressed more like the standard for a patron of the lodge’s ski hills, still wearing his heavy coat, unzipped to reveal another heavy sweater beneath, but he felt out of place. 

"Whiskey?" The thing Dorian had pulled out of his suit jacket was a flask, a medium sized silver capsule with looping, extravagant initials embossed on the front: _D.P_. Fancy. 

Taren shook his head, and Dorian sighed as he poured a healthy splash of dark liquid into his coffee and took a sip. Then he leaned back a little, letting out a quick, refreshed breath from his drink and loosening his tie. Taren watched him closely, eyes lingering on his long fingers as they pulled at the knot, and tried unsuccessfully not to picture wrapping his own fingers around it, pulling him in… he flicked his eyes away, out the window to the slopes. 

"I'm glad you made it." He said honestly. 

"I...shouldn't have run out on you." 

Taren swallowed. "Hey, I'm just a stranger. You had to work." 

"Yeah." Hesitation in his voice. Taren cautioned a glance back over to him. He'd taken the glasses off, and now he was looking back at him intently. Too intently. "Actually, I've just stormed out of a particularly dreadful meeting, so I have some time." He was really very good at charming smiles, Taren thought, though he still looked uncomfortable underneath it. Maybe it was the tie. 

“How much time?”

“You have a day pass, don’t you?” Uncomfortable or not, it was an exceptionally enticing smile. “Anything you would recommend to help relieve the _tension_ from telling off a room of high-powered executives?”

“Is that what you do for a living?” Taren raised an eyebrow, while his stomach did a flip. 

“On a good day,” Dorian’s eyes turned toward him with a hooded, but deliberately suggestive gleam, “You were also right about the cabin. Not stuffy at all.” He leaned in a little closer, elbows on the table between them, almost touching his arm, knees turned towards his, still not touching. “So how about it, help me get into a little more trouble?” He finished the suggestion in a low whisper, and that smile stayed, elegant on his lips. 

Taren laughed, a shiver of jitters running through him as he put his coffee cup down with a clatter. He quickly glanced back out the window, feeling warm in his coat. The idea was more than tempting, but something in his gut gripped against it. He just wanted… _crazy_ , he remembered, but still: he just wanted to see that _real_ smile again. The one that had lit up their booth the previous night as Dorian had dug into his tales with excited questioning, and raved on about some cosmic riddle in the meeting of astrological science and the writings of ancient peoples that Taren had only barely understood. 

"Fresh snow," he said, nodding ahead out the window. "Nothing better for stress than flying downhill right after a good snowfall." He shrugged, "could go skiing, since you've got all day." 

Dorian's smile faltered a little, "I can think of at least one thing better," he returned, "and warmer." 

Taren turned his head to face him, tried to smile back politely, and met his eyes. Smouldering, desiring, _hungry_. His breath hitched, he bit his lip, and said, "I think I'd rather go skiing." 

Dorian blinked and leaned back. He raised an eyebrow. "Are you playing hard to get?" 

"No," Taren answered quickly. He breathed out, long. "I had a really good time with you last night. And this might be crazy, but I —" oh _well done_ , really, "I wanted to see you again and," he grabbed a lock of his hair and twisted it, "I'd be happy to spend more time with you." He sighed, “if that’s what you want.” 

Dorian’s mouth hung open. “Well, that’s an honest answer.” He muttered, half to himself, but not so quiet that Taren couldn’t hear; he shrugged. “And you want to go skiing,” Dorian repeated, disbelief colouring his tone. 

Taren nodded, “since I have a day pass and all.” 

“With me?” 

Taren caught his eye and nodded again, smiling a little, because the look on Dorian’s face was one of surprise, and disbelief, but he’d been confounded out of the charming and indecipherable mask he’d put on. Now he just looked like he was thinking; considering it.

“I think it would be nice.” Taren said, chancing another encouraging smile. 

“Nice,” Dorian repeated, and his face broke into a smile of genuine amusement. Taren let out a nervous breath. “You mean freezing.” Dorian crossed his arms, chiding him. 

“Not with the right equipment.” He nodded out the window again, gesturing towards the lines of guests taking chairlifts up the hill and finishing their runs downward in sprays of soft white powder. “You won’t even notice it.” 

“I don’t know how to ski.” Dorian protested, but very lightly, an amused smirk centred on his face where the pushy smile had been. 

“I’ll teach you,” Taren offered, taking another careful sip of his coffee to smooth out his nerves. 

Dorian chuckled, looking out the window with renewed interest. Then he shook his head, just as in front of them a large, lumbering man came gliding too fast to the bottom of one of the steeper slopes, failed to properly stop himself, and fell rolling in the snow. He got up momentarily, offering a thumbs up to the small crowd of people nearby who had rushed to his aid. 

“That’s going to be me,” Dorian pointed, “I’m going to fall.” 

Taren chuckled, and flashed Dorian one more genuine, encouraging smile. “I’ll catch you.” He promised. 

\----

Taren led Dorian through the main lobby and towards the lines for equipment rentals. It was high season for the lodge, and the hills were busy, but the lines moved fast. Before long, they’d arrived in front of a long table where peppy, uniformed employees were at the ready with clipboards and forms, asking customers what they needed. Taren scanned the equipment room behind, where two more employees were busy retrieving and sorting boots and helmets. He caught the eye of one, an elf with a simple line of sage green tattoo framing his pale face, and waved. 

“Hey, T!” The tall blond elf hopped up to the table to meet them, grinning at Taren before roughly ruffling his hair. There was a brief jostling of laughter and playful shoving between them before the elf's eyes settled curiously on Dorian. 

“Help me out,” Taren said, gesturing to Dorian, “he needs everything.” 

Beside him, Dorian laughed nervously, and shot him a worried glance. 

“You stay here, get sorted. I’m going to go grab my skis from my car.” Taren explained, smiling, “be right back.” 

Dorian cocked his head. Disbelief still hadn’t left his face. “You have skis in your car?” 

Taren shrugged. He had skis, snowshoes, an ice pick and fishing rod, two shovels, rope, flashlights, and a sleeping bag in his car. “It’s winter,” he said, “I’ll be right back, meet me there —” He pointed at the door leading out from behind the rows of cubbies and lockers where guests could store their valuables, and patted Dorian on the back, turning him toward the waiting elf and his clipboard of waivers. Dorian shook his head, and took the clipboard, laughing quietly to himself. 

Taren hurried away. He jogged the long stretch of parking lot to where he’d left his van, gathered up his equipment, and carried it back out towards the slopes as quickly as he could. When he arrived at the designated spot, Dorian was sitting on a bench, layered in bright, water-resistant nylon from head to toe. His jacket was a shining cerulean blue, with the lodge’s logo of a stylized mountain printed in white on the arm, and a tag with his name and various equipment ID numbers hung from its zipper. Two long skis were leaned up against the bench beside him, and he was grimacing out at the crowds of people and the snow covered hills. 

Taren waved as he approached, smiling cheerily, and Dorian’s expression softened slightly. Taren dropped his skis down onto the snow and clicked his feet in, motioning for Dorian to follow. He watched as Dorian rose, eyeing his own skis suspiciously before trying to follow suit. It took him a few tries, kicking at the snaps with his foot, and Taren let him figure it out alone, while trying not to chuckle. 

“Come on, I’ll teach you how to stop.” Taren turned toward the lowest hill, where instructors took first-time skiers and parents stayed all day with their small children. His skis slid smoothly over the packed snow, and he went slowly, waiting for Dorian to follow with an unintentional smirk on his lips. 

Taren took him up to the top of the first hill, a barely-there bump in the snowy mountainside, close to the lodge. At the top he ran Dorian through a quick demonstration. Hold the poles like this, bend your knees. Keep your skis pointed in a little, but don’t cross the toes. Or the heels. 

“Okay, and when you get near the bottom, make a pizza.” Taren pointed the toes of his skis in, so that the long blades made a triangle out behind him, “like this.” 

Dorian snorted. “A pizza,” he shook his head, laughing, but tried diligently to copy the action. 

Taren grinned, “usually I teach this to kids.” Dorian was still laughing, and the sound of it would be making Taren blush if not for the cold wind already reddening his cheeks. “See you at the bottom!”

Taren pushed off down the short hill, and drifted slowly down, making a casual turn with just a slight lean to his body and coming to an easy stop at the end. He turned to look up the hill and waved, grinning again as he watched Dorian take a dramatically large breath and follow. 

Dorian came to a slightly less graceful, but perfectly acceptable stop at the bottom, looking proud. “Alright, what’s next?” 

Taren nodded towards the next hill before the base of the lodge. A medium-sized blip of snow used for teaching and sledding. It stood out broader than the first slope, perpendicular to the other hills with a wide field of its own to open into, and had different lanes drawn out down its length in streamers of orange plastic fences. 

“Baby steps,” he said, skiing off towards the hill with a wave for Dorian to follow. Dorian glided up beside him, joining him as he reached the line of people at the base of the training slope. 

“So, you’re a ski instructor to children in your spare time?” Dorian asked, leaning lightly on one of his poles as they shuffled forward in the line. 

“Sometimes,” Taren shrugged, flashing him a quick smirk, “the community centre has after school programs; I volunteer.” 

“That is the most disturbingly wholesome thing I have ever heard.” Dorian responded to his smirk with exaggerated incredulity, “you disgust me.” 

Taren laughed, composure breaking at Dorian’s dry humour, and almost breaking Dorian’s along with it. He caught a faint glimpse of that elusive _real_ smile again before moving forward to the rope pulley at the front of the line. 

“After you,” he waved a courteous hand in front of him, gesturing for Dorian to take the rope. 

“What’s this?” 

“You hold onto it, it pulls you up.” Taren pointed at the patron ahead, who stood balanced on a snowboard while being pulled up the hill by the fast-moving rope. 

“Are you utterly insane?” 

“It’s easy, just bend your knees and grab on.” 

Dorian glanced back at him with that exaggerated, incredulous look again; not quite so exaggerated now. Taren chuckled. 

“You’re holding up the line.” 

Dorian looked worriedly at the moving rope. 

“Just don’t let go,” Taren instructed with another amused smirk, as he took one of Dorian’s hands and directed him to place it over the rope. Dorian grabbed on, and was pulled quickly but smoothly up the hill, both hands gripping tight. 

Taren followed, and at the top was greeted by Dorian standing with crossed arms, eyeing him with mock suspicion. Taren laughed again, and gave Dorian a congratulatory pat on the arm. He directed them to the far lanes on the hill, where bright orange cones were set out to teach new skiers turning. 

“You come here a lot then?” Dorian remarked conversationally, watching closely as the people ahead of them succeeded or failed to make the tight turns between cones down the hill, a line of determined concentration between his brows. 

“Not here,” Taren answered, watching that focused gaze in quiet appreciation, “the clan has land, over that way,” he pointed northeast toward the rising of another clear, snowy peak. “Not everyone can afford to get their fun in at five-star resorts,” he shrugged, “not that you really need all the frill.” 

Dorian scoffed at him. “If that was directed at me, I’ll have you know I donate quite a lot of money to charity.” He asserted defensively, “huge sums.” 

Taren nodded appreciatively, raising his eyebrows and stifling another chuckle. 

“It generally earns me tremendous accolades,” Dorian continued, “just so you know.” 

“Are you always this competitive?” Taren shook his head, still stifling his amusement with a teasing smirk. 

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Dorian flashed him a teasing smile of his own in return, sly and flirtatious. 

Taren felt heat rush through him despite the cold winds, and grinned. “Alright then, race you down!” He challenged, pushing off with his poles to start down the hill. Dorian gave a protesting shout beside him and pushed off too, just behind. 

Taren wound his way around the line of cones swiftly, making wide s-shaped turns across the length of his lane, and coming to a stop with one last wide, snow-spraying turn to face back towards the hill. Dorian then, was coming at him. Not overly fast, but he missed one turn between cones, and was sliding down the centre of his lane with a little too much speed, skis in a desperate triangle. 

Taren steadied Dorian’s wobbly halt at the bottom of the hill, meeting him with open arms and laughter, while Dorian glared. 

“I told you I’d catch you.” 

“I hate you.” 

“One or two more times, ‘til you get it, then we can go up.” 

\----

He was a quick study, getting the hang of turns and stops with only a few runs down the practice hills, and before long Taren was leading him over to the chairlifts, laughing at some new and facetiously grumpy remark that Dorian had made about the cold. 

They reached the base of the hill and followed the fences leading lines of skiers and snowboarders to the bottom of the chairlift, where a uniformed Dwarf with a chipper demeanour and dark hair sticking carelessly out from under her hat was ushering resort patrons into their seats and monitoring the progression of the lift in its cycle up and down the hill. 

“Taren!” She greeted him as they approached with a bubbly smile and a hop towards him, pulling him into a one-armed hug and grinning at Dorian over his side. “A little birdy told me you were here on a date!” 

She released Taren from the hug and winked at Dorian, whose face had dropped into _uncomfortable_ again at lightning speed. Taren punched Dagna playfully in her very well insulated arm. 

“Dorian, Dagna,” he introduced quickly, “Dagna, shut up.” 

She punched him back. “Sit tight, don’t rock the lift, stand at the top.” She instructed in quick, official-sounding speech, winking at Dorian again as she ushered them both onto a coming chair. 

The chairlift rocked upwards, taking them up into the air above the main run of ski hills and westward up the mountainside. Their feet, still clamped firmly in their long skis, dangled off the chair below them, hundreds of meters of free air between them and the small dots of figures speeding and sometimes even leaping down the steep hills below. He felt Dorian stiffen a little beside him, looking down. 

“Do you know _everyone_ who works here?” He asked, taking his eyes off the slope and fixing them on Taren. 

“Small town,” Taren shrugged, “sorry you were put on the spot.” 

Dorian responded with what seemed like a somewhat forced chuckle. “I’m not offended, but this isn’t a date.” He said correctingly, “if it were, I’d have chosen something that made _me_ look much better.” 

Taren laughed, and then with a slight shudder and a clank, the lift stopped moving. Dorian looked down and then behind them in a sudden panic. 

“Why are we stopped?” 

Taren sighed, and leaned back, looking up at the cloudless, bright blue sky overhead. “Because Dagna’s messing with me.” He answered, blowing a puff of air up towards the glacial sky. 

“Some friends.” Dorian relaxed slightly beside him, and Taren glanced over at him out of the corner of his eye. 

“Here, look out there,” He pointed, turning slightly in his seat to point northward along the mountain ridges, his arm crossing over Dorian’s body as he did. “That’s Lavellan valley, below those three peaks there.” The edge of the valley could just be made out from up in the centre of the hill where they hung, suspended midway up what was really only a short stretch of hill in the vast and rolling mountainside. 

“Lavellan, like your last name?” Dorian echoed in surprise. 

“Clan name. Myth has it that the valley was settled in ancient days by an Emerald Knight named Lavellan; they were spiritual warriors who led the People through the mountains and defended them from men and beasts.” 

“You're descended from elvhen princes, is that it?” Dorian regarded him with a playfully raised eyebrow, and Taren felt suddenly very aware of how close together they were, padded knees and puffy coats nudging one another with innocent, insulated pressure in the narrow seat of the lift. 

“Well, the myth has him becoming one with the sky in the end, filling the northern nights with emerald light.” Taren shrugged, “what scientists might call an aurora.” 

“Pretty,” Dorian remarked, following his gaze. “People still live up there?” 

“A few do, and we still keep the land.” Taren leaned a little closer into Dorian’s side, and went on pointing out landmarks. The three mountain peaks glittered in the striking winter sun, and Taren traced lines down them with his arm, describing the winding paths that lay out of view in their ridges. He pointed out a shimmering lake, frozen over and bouncing sunlight off its surface like a frosted mirror built into the snow covered floor of the valley, which was shadowed in thick forests of deep green trees. 

“You’re getting why I love it here now, right?” He lowered his hand back down, dropping it onto Dorian’s where he held onto the bar sealing them into the lift. 

Dorian’s breath misted into the air in front of them, and his hand turned up to take Taren’s in a comfortable hold. “Yeah —” 

The lift clanked back to life, their chair swaying abruptly back and forth with the sudden movement, and Dorian’s hand left Taren’s to quickly clutch at the safety bar. Taren laughed, shaking his head, and made ready to stand as the lift approached the end of its climb. 

He braced his knees and placed down his feet as the lift reached the top, and was deposited standing comfortably at the intersection of marked paths leading towards the different possible routes back down. Dorian, however, had not prepared, and was still watching Taren laugh as the lift approached. 

“You’re supposed to stand up!” Taren called as Dorian’s feet left the ground. He blinked and quickly slid forward, dropping the short distance with a stumbling thud, and almost falling again as Taren rushed forward to steady him. 

“Have I mentioned how I hate you?” 

Taren took his hand and pulled him forward, out of the way of the oncoming lifts, still lightly laughing. 

“What do you think you can handle?” He asked, pulling Dorian to stand in front of the large map of trails illustrated on a large wooden sign in the centre of the hilltop. Blue diamonds and green circles to mark the simplest slopes, with arrows pointing away to further points on the hillside where black diamonds of escalating difficulty could be followed toward paths that were steep and spiked with jumps, or that wound at sharp angles through thickets of trees. Taren pointed out three of the easier options, ranging from straightforward and plain to just a _little_ steep and twisty. 

Dorian smiled that confident, competitive smile again and took a breath. “That one,” he declared, choosing the most complex of the three easiest runs. 

They moved away northward to the top of the path. The route wound around the side of the hill a ways, so that the lodge lay downwards and southeast of the path. The wide lane turning down the hill was framed on either side by thick lines of trees, and the forest stretched out on the north side, trees filling the hillside into the distance with branches blanketed in heavy lumps of white snow. 

Taren watched Dorian push off, and then followed close behind him. He maintained a slow descent, turning in soft zigzags down the straight parts of path and leaning down low to turn tightly as the path wound around eastward again. Then, he passed Dorian, who was struggling a little to maintain balance after a too-wide turn, and as Taren glanced behind to watch him round the next one, Dorian’s skis crossed over themselves in the front, and sent him tumbling head first into a snowbank piled up by the line of orange fence separating the path and the trees. Taren heard a shout followed by a string of curse words as Dorian rolled into the fence and sat back, one foot detached from its ski and the other pointed out sideways with the blade pointing into the air. 

He swerved to the side of the hill, stopped, skis perched sidelong on the hill, and detached his boots from their clips. Then he ran up the side of the path to where Dorian had crashed, heart beating hard in his chest with worry. 

Dorian was laughing when he reached him. An embarrassed, exasperated sort of laugh, but a laugh. He was blissfully uninjured except for what would certainly be a bruise to his rear come morning, and shaking his head while snow fell in fine flakes from his moustache. 

“This is your idea of a good time?” He complained, through another exasperated sigh of laughter. Taren reached an arm down to help him up, then pulled him into a quick hug, patting him down in search of injuries and brushing the snow from his back. 

“You okay?” He asked, bracing Dorian by the shoulders and locking his eyes with his, watching for winces of untold pain. 

Dorian gripped him back, a breath catching in his throat without any signs of wincing, pulled him in, and pressed his cold, snow-soaked lips to Taren’s. 

_Crazy_. He was going absolutely crazy. The world fell away in the half second of sudden fervour between them, breath cold and short in his throat, hands insulated by thick gloves and thick insulation keeping him whole inches away from Dorian’s hidden skin. His lips were cold, wet drops of snow tickling against his face as he leaned into the embrace, but his breath was hot, and for a brief moment his eyes closed and his body sighed and his mind was as clear as the icy sky. He pulled away, reopened his eyes to their searching exploration of Dorian’s face, and in another second, the world was back. Dorian smiled, real, then not real, then looked away. 

“I told you my idea was better.” Suave, but not really looking at him. 

Taren took a breath, and batted away some more snow from Dorian’s shoulders. “I know an easier way down,” He suggested, stepping away to return downhill for his skis. “Follow me, watch for bears.” He called out behind him. 

Dorian carefully joined him, moving slowly down the side of the hill and then ducking as Taren lifted a section of the plastic fence and ushered him off the official path, and onto a narrower, but generally flat stretch of trail. 

“You mean Dread Wolves?” Dorian bantered back, as Taren led them into the forest. 

“No, I mean bears.” Taren replied with a grin, gliding off ahead. 

The new trail wound around in a slow, weaving pattern back to the lodge, coming into contact sometimes with a wide maintenance road and rolling up and down soft hills of snow. In some spots, the trees opened up to reveal views of huge, hidden swaths of untamed land. Trees mounted and climbed along the ridges of the mountainsides, and grew in deep oceans of white-frosted green peaks in the valleys. 

“It is beautiful,” Dorian breathed in admittance beside him, as they came up over a ridge to overlook the valleys and mountains that lay north, and the specks of cabins and chalets dotting the land around the busy lodge to the east below them. On one side of their lookout, the excited bustling of tourists below could be seen, looking like so many colourful specks, trickling up and down the small hills by the lodge. To the other side, the view of the mountains opened out, unblocked by the carefully curated forests of trees within the lodge’s grounds, and stretching off into the horizon in rippling hills and valleys. Dorian sighed out a long breath, and it misted out into the cold air towards the three peaks over Lavellan Valley to the north, where he looked out, squinting as rays of the west-leaning sun reflected off the distant mountains. “What’s that?” 

He pointed to a thick brown road in the mountainside, which led through a wide field of bare grey tree trunks and up toward a collection of squat, steel buildings and a gravelly parking lot lined with heavy trucks. More grey trunks stood out in a vast section of the hills in the distance, ugly scars in the sloping land. 

“Logging company.” Taren crossed his arms, “used to be mostly local, now it’s been bought out by some giant conglomerate, buying up land and clear-cutting old forests,” he frowned, “breaking land treaties, or trying to, violating environmental sustainability regulations and then just getting slapped on the wrist…” He glanced at Dorian, who was still looking out towards the lumber fields with an unimpressed expression. 

“Well that’s rather despicable, isn’t it?” 

Taren sighed, “yeah, not the view you want to show tourists.” He grimaced, and turned to move on, “come on, sun’s setting; then there really will be wolves.” 

\----

The long-winding path found the lodge again at the base of the hill, coming out just to the side of the other, official routes down the mountain. They rejoined the lines of people coming in from a day of skiing as they entered the lodge and Dorian returned his borrowed gear. Taren waited while Dorian retrieved his locked-up items, and when he came out into the wide lobby of the main lodge, he looked again like the slick businessman he’d seemed earlier that afternoon. Though now his hair was swept back with sweat and moulded into a somewhat flat shape from the ski helmet, and his cheeks were still flushed from the cold. 

“I probably have a slew of angry emails to get to, but this was…” Dorian walked with him towards the entrance of the lodge, one hand at his briefcase and the other in his pocket, “well you’ve proven me wrong again. Thank you for a very wonderful time, and I hope we never do it again.” He smiled, charm and dry humour in full force. 

Taren chuckled, and ran a hand through his own helmet-skewed hair. “Can I ask you on a real date?” He asked, jumping into the question with quick, hopeful honesty. Might as well go crazy. 

Dorian blinked at him, opening his mouth but forming no reply. 

“There’s a festival down in the village in a couple nights. You can’t have to work on the _eve_ of the holiday, right?” He continued brightly, and still a little too fast. 

“I think I saw something about that in a brochure,” Dorian answered slowly, eyes scanning him with something unreadable behind them. Doubtful, maybe even suspicious eyes. “Sounds charming.” He finished with an air of nondescript boredom that seemed less joking than all the dry humour which had come before it. 

“It is,” Taren replied, flinching a little under the look, “good food, ice sculpture competitions, music, dancing…” He smiled, one last crazy attempt at hopeful, “and admission is free. I’ll buy you a hot cider.” He suggested, running his suddenly restless fingers through his hair again.

Dorian seemed to examine him for another long moment, from his nervous smile to the fidgeting fingers in his hair, and then he shrugged, and met Taren’s eye with that same, beguiling smile again. 

“Then I’d be charmed, I’m sure.” He answered, agreeing with a slight nod. 

Taren grinned with relief. “Good,” he dropped his fiddling fingers from his hair, “I’d offer to pick you up, but I’ve seen your car.” His fingers, still restless, now found themselves fidgeting in his coat pockets, “meet me at the tree downtown at six?” 

“You do know that your calling it a ‘ _downtown’_ is entirely laughable, right?” Dorian replied with a jesting raise of his eyebrow. 

“Wear your fancy scarf, make yourself _look good_ ,” Taren quipped back, “I’ll show you a good time in my podunk little village.” 

“Promises, promises.” Dorian sighed dramatically in reply. And with that promise, Taren took his leave. 

\----

The sun was setting over the lodge as Taren walked out into the expansive parking lot ahead of it. The clear blue sky faded into a dusty pink and violet mist, and the surrounding trees turned to grey shapes, lit only by a few stray lights twinkling down the long mountain road. He leaned against the side of his van for a moment, just breathing the air and watching birds flit across the darkening sky. Adrenaline still coursed through him, and it came far removed from the exercise of a day spent on the hills. He sighed, watching faint stars glint into view as the dusk settled quickly around him. 

“What,” Sera’s commanding voice jolted him from his wandering thoughts, and his head snapped back down to look out towards the sound, “are _you_ doing, going on dates with _Dorian_ friggin’ _Pavus_?” 

Sera and Dagna were in front of him, a pair of crossed arms and expectant, nosy faces, now changed out of their lodge uniforms and sporting ragged corduroy and fleece coats and floppy, pom-pom tufted hats. Sera’s coat was plastered in patches and buttons, and she leaned towards him, peering into his face with a secretive glint in her eye. 

Taren crossed his arms. “Can I help you?” 

“You do know who he _is_ , right?” Dagna asked, just as expectant, but a little softer than her partner. 

“We met last night,” Taren admitted slowly, “he’s here on some retreat with his father’s company.” 

“And you _know_ who his father is, _right_?” Sera insisted, still in his face. 

“Something else Pavus. Started with an _H_.” Taren replied impatiently, and Sera rolled her eyes. 

“ _Halward_ Pavus,” Dagna corrected, “one of the richest men _in the country_ , patently evil, famously homophobic…”

“He’s one of the big shits who lobbies _against_ criminalizing that conversion shite, his company has faced something like twenty-six — ”   
  
“ — twenty-eight,” Dagna intervened.

“Right, twenty- _eight_ discrimination suits, all settled out of court, and don’t even get me _started_ on how he’s been treating the staff.” 

Taren frowned. “But his son is…” 

“Occasionally caught leaving sketchy massage parlours and sex clubs, nothing ever confirmed, just vague tabloid rumours in disreputable papers. Wonder how much that costs.” Dagna interrupted him, finishing the sentence and bounding on with more defamatory information, “but he has some bought-off gambling convictions and public intoxication records to his name that daddy can’t erase.” She finished. 

“Spent a chunk of his twenties in and out of some culty rehab centre.” Sera added before Taren could interject, “honestly, it’s like you don’t even search up the random strangers you take home.” 

Taren shook his head, still catching up. “But, he works for his father’s company?” That tense, restrained smile, the stiffly nonchalant avoidance of any talk about his job, “he said he just finished a Master’s in...something business.” 

“That bit’s true.” Sera nodded, “apparently he’s some kind of genius.” 

“Graduated younger than _me_ .” Dagna added, “double majored, and in hard sciences. Published a paper on astrophysics with his fourth-year supervising professor that was _actually —”_

Sera cut Dagna’s spiralling thought off with her own, “ _then_ he got shut up in rehab again for a stint, finished a Master’s degree in ‘ _something business’_ with some lofty honour or other, and skyrocketed straight to the top of _daddy’s company._ ” She concluded, “the company’s website acts like he’s an executive poster boy.” 

“Shit,” said Taren. “He just seemed…” his heart was sinking fast, “charming, passionate.” 

“Gross.” Sera stuck out her tongue. 

“Shut up, I mean _interesting_.” And passionate. And something else, underneath, that he still couldn’t put a name to. 

“You always see the best in people,” Dagna shrugged. 

“I invited him to the festival.” Taren admitted, shrugging too, and corralling his face back into a neutral expression. 

“Have fun, I guess,” Sera advised, “heard _he_ tips well, at least. Just be careful with the rich bitch, alright?”

Taren sighed, crossing his arms and looking both Dagna and Sera over more closely. They were carrying heavy looking backpacks on their backs, and each had on dark gloves and red scarves wrapped loosely up over their chins. 

“What are you two getting up to?” He raised a knowing eyebrow. 

“Vandalism,” replied Dagna happily, while Sera said “art!” 

“Wanna come?” Sera offered with a grin. 

Taren shook his head with a short laugh. “Yeah, sure,” he answered. He moved around to the back of his van to dig out his own pack, and tossed into it a canister of red spray paint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The elf who works at the ski rentals is probably Theo Lavellan. This is a minor detail and absolutely not relevant I just like him a lot.  
> * "it's not that deep" says the author, one chapter later is making maps of Christmasfic Town because the mountains have to make sense. I hope the cardinal directions were ok to follow.  
> * Sera absolutely still took a 15, and 100% judges all potential romantic partners of her friends based on whether or not they tip well.  
> * Taren is an absolute baby I love writing him and also wanted to murder him the whole time. I hope y'all like him as much as I do! <3


	3. Night Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian goes on (another?) date, doesn't know how to behave.

Dorian spent the rest of his afternoon hunkered down in the privacy of his cabin, answering emails and trying to keep his mind busy. His phone still wouldn’t catch a signal, but the resort at least had a fast internet connection, a fact that his father was putting to good use. 

It was all a rather ingenious bit of manipulation, actually. The whole thing was orchestrated like a reward; an all-expense-paid visit to the picturesque mountainside, holidays arranged for a small collection of favoured staff up in some snowy dreamscape, with little segments of time blocked off for ostensibly morale-boosting “relaxation”. Dorian felt about as rewarded by the whole thing as he ever did. In truth, no one would be seeing rewards — monetary rewards — unless things panned out _just so_. There were meetings and conference calls scheduled all throughout the festive season, as his father tried to pull together his year-topping masterpiece of an investment. Halward himself was on a tight schedule of important dinners with visiting clients, moving between hot springs and five-star restaurants in an endless cycle of greedy negotiations.

Families were invited up to join them in the last days of the retreat, and Halward Pavus fully expected to be able to give out bonuses and announce his various accomplishments at the New Year’s dinner organized for the last night of the trip. If things didn’t come through, however, that scene would become an interesting study in quietly seething rage and disappointment, which none of his fine “family” of executives wanted to see. 

_No distractions, getting away from it all_ ; that was how his father had enthusiastically pitched the concept. Nothing to keep them from working themselves cheerily into oblivion, and nothing else to do, if you didn’t like snow. And Dorian doubted very much that any one of his affluent, aged, unadventurous coworkers had taken to the slopes any more than he had. If it weren’t for Taren — he paused that line of thought, furrowing his brows back down at his computer screen, typing something short and biting, and then pressing send before he could change his mind. 

If it weren’t for Taren, he’d be having a really terrible time. 

Once he had about had it with emails, he ate a rich dinner, making the most of his father’s expense account at one of the restaurants, but carrying away most of it in little boxes back to his cabin. Then he fiddled with his phone for a while, taking pictures, wishing he could call someone — call Taren — trying to stop thinking about talking to Taren. 

The cabin was large, open and stylishly modern. On the outside it looked the picturesque, rustic scene of a woodsman’s hut, built of solid logs and set into the snow at a distance from the larger chalets and other cabins, but the clear driveway of pavement leading up to it and the space maintained for his car betrayed its belonging to the resort. Inside, there was nothing rustic about it. The floors were heated hardwood — an ingenious invention, he had to admit — and the furniture was all smoothly lacquered wood and polished leather. Tile floors lined the expansive bathroom, half of which was occupied by a wide bath offering various relaxation modes and massage jets. The bed was huge too, and set with an array of down-filled pillows and sheets with obscenely high thread counts. He’d already made good use of the minibar, filling his flask with a new variety of the little expensive bottles of stuff that showed up in it each day, never looking at the price tag. He liked to think about his father reading and grudgingly approving the bill after their stay as he emptied them into his flask, though in actual fact his father would likely never see the record of expenses he was defiantly racking up. Some measly accountant would take care of it, moving funds from one account to another without hardly batting an eye, but Dorian could still pretend. 

There was a long leather couch to the side of the bed, boxing off some of the open space into a sitting area with a long coffee table and a wide, electric fireplace that was there more for show than for heat. He picked up a book from the collection of large, illustrated volumes sitting out on the table and sank into the cushions, lifting his feet leisurely to rest on the table in a gesture that delighted him a little in its informality, even if there was no one else to appreciate his bad manners. 

The coffee table book was filled with sharply edited and stunning photos of the surrounding land; long panoramic views of mountain lakes in the springtime, starkly contrasting photos of little red birds perched in snowclad evergreens. Nothing informative, just pictures and tiny-lettered credit to their locations. Quite a few, he noticed, had their claim in Lavellan Valley. He flipped on through the photos, wondering at how vastly different everything looked over the changing seasons; trees dipped in gold and woodland critters frolicking over leaf-strewn valleys in the fall, canoes adrift in glassy lakes under deep red sunsets in the summer.

 _“Noble tribesmen of a Dalish clan engaged in a traditional dance,”_ claimed one photo; one of the only specimens in the book showing _people_ anywhere in the gorgeous valley. They were silhouetted, hands held in a wide circle, dresses blurring in dark shapes against a setting summer sun. He looked at the photo and its description for a long while, thinking about that word, _noble_ , and how it really meant _alien_ , and how he couldn’t have come up with a more insultingly complimentary tagline if he tried. He wondered what Taren would think — he tried to stop thinking about Taren. 

The long lonely night wore on, and an ache began to crawl its way into his legs and arms; that damned rope, that plainly devastating fall. Not that anything had really been devastated other than his pride, but he could feel its effects on his muscles now, and he stretched unhappily. He poured himself a steep glass of liquor and ran a bath, and thought about how much easier things could have been if Taren had just come up to his cabin (thinking about him was alright if he only thought about him naked, or so the voice of the drink in his glass told him). But _easier_ wasn’t really the word. Everything about Taren was easy, from his friendly smiles to his enthusiastic conversation. He embodied some kind of emotion that Dorian had never found in anyone else he’d met; some kind of untroubled grace, utterly at home in his beautiful little world and his place in it. He sighed, choking on that twinge of aching jealousy again, and clearing his throat of it with another drink. 

After his bath, Dorian let the somewhat more relaxed aches in his muscles and the warmth swirling around his head from the alcohol carry him into tiredness. He settled into the vast bed early, tucking his watch and phone into a drawer of a bedside table and deciding resolutely not to look at them again until morning. There was a skylight above the bed, a bit of vaulted glass that was somehow kept free of piling snow, and as he lay back he looked up through it, staring out at a deep dark sky filled with more stars than he had ever seen with his naked eye. 

As he watched the sky, musing sleepily about the distant constellations and the positions of the moons, soft waves of colourful light began to dance across his view. Emerald green shadows, making shapes across the sky like clouds of breath misting out into cold air. 

He closed his eyes, and thought about Taren. 

\----

Day passes to the lodge cost one hundred and twenty-five dollars. This had not occurred to Dorian at all over the course of his arrival, check-in, and day-and-a-half stay within it. He had arrived, had his name found on a list, taken the key to his cabin, and flashed the luggage attendants who carried his things some very winning smiles, tipping extra as he went to make up for his untimely arrival. He’d arrived so late that he was _early_ , and even the most determinedly chipper employees had looked tired. He’d also been on a bit of a high, if he was being honest; having just begun what was supposed to be an absolutely _dreadful_ trip in what was probably the least dreadful way possible. Then, there hadn’t been time to think much about the amenities of the resort at all, as he’d spent the morning getting ignored in meetings and then making himself heard, only to once again have his dreadful time unceremoniously interrupted by something just… _stupidly_ delightful. Disturbingly wholesome. The universe was being kind to him — he noticed the sign detailing prices inside the lodge’s lobby the next day — too kind. Much kinder than he deserved. 

The new day brought early alarms from his bedside drawer and work to do. Policies to argue and people to outsmart, mostly, which was tiresome and not terribly hard, so while he worked a constant wave of unasked-for commentary began running behind it all. This set of problems was much more difficult to deal with: his too-good-to-be-true first night had come back the next day, bearing his scarf and too much good will for one person; paying a steep fee just to see him, apparently, wanting to talk to him. Looking at him like he wanted something besides sex, and kissing him like he wanted nothing but. How, exactly, was he going to contend with this impossibly kind attention. Exactly what was Taren getting out of it anyway? 

His clothes felt stiff. He tapped his foot impatiently through conference calls and early morning meetings. He squinted at a spreadsheet. He made and rechecked calculations. He corrected other people’s calculations, which were inevitably flawed. He looked out a window at the ski hills, thought about kissing Taren in the snow, frowned, and went back to tapping his foot. He thought about his five hundred dollar scarf, and he thought about Taren’s fluffy green one; how it was probably knitted for him by his grandmother or something. He frowned again, remembering Taren’s hundred and twenty-five dollar day pass. He put on his boots, went to his car, and drove into town. 

The dwarf in the chocolate shop didn’t seem impressed when he entered in a flushed hurry at ten-minutes-to-four in the afternoon, not even when Dorian told him his order and flashed him a bright silver credit card. He threw sparkling tissue paper into the bag over Dorian’s purchase with a gruff scowl, and followed Dorian right to the door as he left, locking it and flipping over the sign directly behind him. Dorian kept his sarcastic remark between himself and the empty street, and glanced up at the sunset as he turned to pass the few darkened shops between him and the warm glow emanating from the windows of _Lavellan’s Crafts._

\----

“We’re closed!” A snarky female voice rang out at almost the exact moment his feet hit the welcome mat. He looked up to see a blond elf sitting on the shop’s counter, her legs dangling down lined in the tackiest yellow tartan tights he had ever seen. 

“— No we aren’t,” behind her, Taren quickly interrupted with the correction, looking up as he did from the pad of paper which he was bent over. Taren’s eyes flashed up to meet his, impossibly bright from so far away, glinting a little in the light, and his lips spread into a surprised smile. “Dorian,” — just hearing his voice roll pleasantly through his name shouldn’t be able to do _that_ , and yet — “it’s good to see you.” Taren put the pencil he’d been holding down, and stood up straight, smiling warmly. 

His own smile jumped stupidly to his lips, filling his cheeks with warmth. Suddenly every move he needed to make became a task: fix the smile, breathe again, walk forward, speak. 

Sera looked between them, turning her head quickly and then addressing Taren with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. 

“Oy, get a room, you two,” she remarked to the room at large, hopping from the counter and then leaning back against it with crossed arms. She looked over Dorian, eyes doing a slow scan of him while her mouth curled into a threatening smirk. 

“Sera, this is Dorian; Dorian, Sera.” Taren shook his head as Dorian stepped forward into the shop, and tucked a strand of hair back behind his ear. His hair was tied back, gathered loosely into a tie and drooping off centre at the nape of his neck, revealing more of his elaborate tattoos. 

“I know who he is,” Sera replied through her malicious little grin, “nice to meetcha, rich bitch.” 

“ — _Sera_ ,” Taren protested on his behalf, an embarrassed blush coming over him. Dorian chuckled mildly, his own momentary ineptitude for words broken by the comment. 

“Clever,” he shrugged, then extended a hand in a deliberately friendly gesture, lacing his tone with charm as he bit back, “really, you should write that one down, it’s brand new.” 

Sera looked at his hand, kept her arms crossed, and pursed her lips. Dorian shrugged and abandoned the gesture, then lifted the bag of chocolates to the countertop, and focused his attention on Taren. 

“It occurred to me that you went to a lot of trouble for me yesterday,” he smiled graciously, “consider this a more proper thank you.” 

Sera’s eyes glanced sidelong at the bag, her arms still crossed and lips still pursed as Taren leaned over and plucked the thin scrap of sparkling tissue paper from its opening. His brow furrowed slightly as he looked down on the assortment of expensive confections inside, then with half a smile he looked up, back at Dorian. 

“Is this…?” He shook his head, laughing to himself, “you shouldn’t have.” 

Dorian crossed his arms, “I’m very competitive, you remember.” He said, gracious smile still fixed properly on his face, “and I hate to be outdone.”

Sera groaned loudly, making another annoyed show of rolling her eyes as she got up on her tiptoes to peer into the bag. 

“Well alright, go on.” She smirked, and plucked a chocolate from the bag, which she quickly unwrapped and popped into her mouth. Taren sighed and stowed the gift somewhere below the counter. 

“I know you,” Dorian raised an eyebrow, scanning the wild-eyed and rude girl, “don’t you work at the lodge?” 

“Maybe. ‘Work a lot of places.” She replied, words still sticky with chocolate. “Little jobs, here and there — places you wouldn’t ever think of.” She narrowed her eyes at him in provocation. Dorian returned the squint with practised indifference. 

“Sera, leave him alone.” Taren interjected again, glancing at Dorian apologetically. 

“Leave you both alone, more like.” She said, and with a wink back at Taren she hopped forward from her lean on his counter and made her way around it, disappearing through a door into the back behind him. 

“Interesting friends,” Dorian commented as the door swung shut. 

“Nosy friends,” Taren amended, still looking apologetic, “but good ones.” He shrugged, “she’d like you if she knew you.” 

“That so?” Dorian worked to keep the indifference in his face, feeling suddenly caught off guard by the certainty of that reassurance, “I’ve been known to be quite dislikable.” 

“I doubt that.” 

“You’d be surprised how few people appreciate my fantastic wit and charm.” 

“Now you’re fishing for compliments.” 

"Is it working?" He leaned forward expectantly, only half jesting. 

Taren laughed, his cheeks still slightly red, and Dorian very nearly brought a hand up to brush one of those constantly escaping locks of hair back again. 

"Sure, I like you." Again with the honest answers, "And you really didn't need to bring me that." Taren glanced down towards where he had stowed the giftbag of chocolates, and the blush in his cheeks deepened. 

Dorian smiled, "call it the holiday spirit, I'm not usually nearly this kind." He promised with smooth nonchalance, "and I assure you, I have only the worst intentions." He winked, but the intention was to make them even, and somehow the look on Taren's face brought him even further onto shakey ground. 

Taren looked him in the eye. Soft, honest eyes, that creased around his smiles and sparkled with flecks of gold in even the dimmest light. “Does this mean you're free tonight?" 

"Unfortunately not, but then it's probably best I don't ruin the mystique. A grand gesture for a grand gesture; you’ve been far too kind to me already," he leaned back, willing himself to put some distance between him and Taren again, to refocus his attention on the game of it, and not the feeling in his chest. It was supposed to be a game he was good at. "You'll just have to hold out for tomorrow, I'm afraid." 

Sera came out of the back then, dressed in a tattered but tough looking coat and a long red scarf, and looking impatient as she bumped the door open with her hip. "Now it really is closing time, let's get out of here." She said as she entered, addressing Taren. Then she followed it up with "rich bitch, you coming ice-skiing with us?", which she directed haughtily at Dorian. 

"Ice what?" 

"Like jet-skiing but ice. One person drives the snowmobile, other holds on for dear life." 

Dorian looked at Taren quizzically.

"I drive the snowmobile," Taren offered with a casual shrug. 

"You're both completely mad." Dorian said sternly, looking between them both.

The blond cackled in response. "Suit yourself," she scampered her way up to the front of the shop, reorganizing the displays on several shelves as she went. 

"I'll see you tomorrow then?" Taren pressed a lever on his till, and began counting cash, taking up the pencil he'd been sketching with earlier to sign several receipts and write notes in a binder he pulled out from under the cash register. Dorian caught a glimpse of the sketch that had been forming under it, a sweeping landscape of mountains and hills from above — three peaks, a glistening frozen lake below, the edges of a valley — still unfinished, but instantly familiar. 

"I'll try to maintain this elevated level of good cheer, just for you." Dorian promised, eyes moving from the drawing over to Taren's face, and satisfaction filling him as Taren's lip curled up into a lopsided smile. "We saw this yesterday," he noted, looking back to the drawing. 

Taren nodded without looking up, still working on writing numbers into his binder. "Didn't want to forget the view," he said, finishing with one last signature and sealing money away into envelopes before storing things under his counter again. He smiled up at Dorian again before turning to get his coat from the back, and a short moment later Dorian was walking with him toward the exit of the shop, for some reason feeling rather disappointed that he wasn't on his way to go _ice skiing._

"Did you see the auroras last night?" Taren asked him as they walked.

"Yes," Dorian replied with a start, "the lack of nightlife really lends itself to a lack of light pollution," he quipped, landing a teasing look on Taren as they exited the shop. "It's an incredible sky." He admitted a little more honestly as they stepped onto the sidewalk, and deep, misty grey clouds leaned in low against them. 

"Thought you'd like that." Taren replied with another smile, before casually turning to lock his shop's door. 

"Come on, Widdle and Big T are waiting." Sera complained from the wall beside them, where she was leaning with continued impatience. "Later, Fancy." She tossed him another too-sharp smirk, "thanks for the chocolate." She laughed to herself as she skipped off ahead again, leaving Taren shaking his head. 

"Do try not to die," Dorian implored him seriously.

Taren laughed, "See you tomorrow, Dorian." He lifted one arm to pat Dorian's shoulder, a sort of awkward, arms-length gesture that Dorian might have pulled into an embrace, if he had any nerve at all. "Thanks for the chocolate, really." Taren smiled softly, and let go. 

They parted ways as Dorian crossed the street to his car and Taren disappeared down the road. Then, Dorian sat in his car, rubbing his hands together and watching the fog fade from his windows as the heat came on, and tried very hard to lie to himself about what the shaking in his hands meant.

\----

Dorian arrived to the festival the next night fashionably late. Moreso because it had begun snowing again as he had been driving down the mountain, and he’d had to slow his driving to a crawl, waiting for the worst of the squall to pass. He parked his car and shivered into the cold wind as he left it, for once not the only vehicle parked in the lot so late in the evening. Down the road in the distance, he could hear voices, and the faint hum of instruments in the air. 

He walked along the sidewalk of the main street, past various closed shops and quiet buildings. Snow was still falling, drifting in slow, heavy flakes which stuck to his coat as he walked. He breathed out, and watched his breath float away, deciding to remain as far from grumpy about the temperature as he could. He had promised to keep up some level of holiday spirit, after all. Decorative strings of light hung off the buildings, catching on the snow and glowing through the air. He wondered as he walked, not for the first time since he left his cabin — well dressed and groomed; expensive product in his hair and a touch of cologne — what the hell he was doing. 

The tree came into sight first, wide and tall and glowing in white and blue light from top to bottom. It was decorated in glittering strings of tiny lights and rings of silver tinsel, and the square of open street around it shone brightly underneath, decorated in even more strings of lights. Dorian took in the crowd. The square wasn’t exactly busy, but it was populated. Stalls offering cider and other confections saw crowds of people milling around them, ice sculptures lined the sidewalks, and off in a wide lot of open snow at the far end of the street, a small stage had been set up, below which more people were gathering in groups. He watched for a moment as couples and families passed by him, pointing at this and that or laughing gently at one another. Cheery, he thought, with somewhat forced disinterest. Then, he found Taren. 

He was sitting on a bench under the tree, a loose braid of mahogany hair snaking out over his shoulder from under a drooping knit hat, and steaming paper cups clutched in each of his huge mittens. He raised one of them, cup and all, and waved, smiling brightly under the festive lights. Dorian felt his stomach pulling inwards, as if by some string in his gut, tried to look aloof, and strode forward. 

Taren handed him one of the steaming paper cups, it smelled like sweet apples and cinnamon and it felt warm in his hands, radiating through his black leather gloves — which were stylish, but not especially helpful. He took an appreciative sip, finding that the drink was perfectly warm, having already cooled significantly in the winter air. Taren took his arm and turned him around to face the tree, and the rest of the festivities. 

“Happy holidays!” He declared, then with a quick and happy glance to Dorian, he added a gentle “thanks for coming,” and began to tug him along. 

“Very festive,” Dorian remarked, though he was finding sarcasm more challenging than usual to muster, “I do believe you promised to show me a good time,” he went on, “what do you have in mind?” He smirked a little, still finding it easy enough to flirt. 

“Hmm,” Taren smirked back at him, apparently entertained, “we can walk around and look at things,” he suggested, “and talk, and eat and drink…” Taren continued to walk him along, almost shoulder to shoulder as Dorian held to his drink with both hands, “listen to music,” he gestured toward the stage, where a little band was playing something lively, “maybe dance.” Taren smiled then, a full display of teeth in his goofy grin. Dorian chuckled, and tried to keep it sarcastic. 

“I can offer a modicum of festive spirit,” Dorian scoffed, looking out at the small crowd of festival-goers gathering by the stage; a few parents were dancing in silly, simple steps with their children, and a young couple was busy at a fast-footed routine, front and centre. “But I draw the line at dancing.” 

“And here I thought you were adventurous,” Taren scoffed back, “or did you mean something else?” 

There was something off in the glance Taren gave him with that comment, a stiffness that surprised him. His thought went to the challenging looks and pointed comments of Taren’s friend at the shop, and to the careful, almost chaste way Taren had patted his shoulder when he’d left. 

“I see someone’s told you a story or two about me, now.” He said. 

Taren shrugged, and suddenly the stiffness about him was gone, and his look turned apologetic. “Nosy friends,” he explained. 

Dorian swallowed; the knot that had previously been twisting in his stomach seemed to have risen up into his throat. But he managed to return the shrug with convincing nonchalance — years of practice. 

“Whatever you heard, it’s probably true,” he admitted casually, smirking through it, “and I do have an excuse, but it most likely involves my being very drunk, which I’m told doesn’t always hold up.” 

“You don’t owe me an explanation.” Taren said quickly, surprising him again, and pulling that tangled mess of twisting knots right back down into his core, “anyway, I get it.” He sighed, “around here, everyone knows everything about me. Sometimes it’s easier when people don’t.” 

Dorian raised an eyebrow, “well now I’m intrigued,” he purred, exuding an air of suggestive interest, and glad to have the attention diverted from himself again, “I didn’t take you for being _bad_.” He added just a hint of a challenge to the words, swinging hard back into the game. 

Taren laughed at his flirting, which did infuriating things to the knots in his stomach, and then composed himself enough to smirk back, “I’ll never tell.” 

Dorian had a feeling that it was a lie, that Taren would share openly if he’d only ask, and he suddenly felt that it was imperative that he didn’t. Maybe he could be this perfect fantasy man, for just these twelve nights, and maybe Dorian could have that, but the idea that he might be more — might be _real —_ was dangerous. 

“Well, one of us should get to remain perfect.” He mused in a complimentary way, and the knots in his stomach tightened as Taren blushed. 

"I'm not perfect," Taren replied through a flustered sounding laugh, "but I do have to ask," Dorian braced himself to refute — or acknowledge — some gossipy scandal, "have you never done this before?" 

Dorian stopped. A date? Maybe. Once or twice, in ways that only barely counted. With people who were more secretive, and less sweet. A catalog of other experiences to shock and awe he had, definitely, but he had a feeling that wasn't what Taren meant. "Done what?" 

Taren gestured broadly around, "the holidays. Properly." 

Dorian chuckled, looking around the quaint street filled with jolly people and colourful decorations as Taren gestured. "Where I come from, doing it properly usually means an extravagant gala, and lengthy, multi-course dinners," and dreadfully long religious services, and arguments with his family, and an empty well of loneliness to fill with alcohol… he shivered. "Indoors," he finished, with only mock grumpiness. 

Taren shook his head, and took his arm again. 

They walked, and talked, and ate, and it was all terribly lovely. Ice sculptures of staggering complexity decorated the sidewalks of the streets, shaped like birds and wolves and whole festive scenes, and Taren made him eat something he called a ‘halla ear’, which was just fried dough covered in sugar, and the music went on enthusiastically, while the lights overhead glittered and sparkled through the ever-falling snow. 

It seemed also that Taren wasn’t exaggerating about his knowing everyone in town. They eventually found themselves standing to the edge of the crowd near the stage, and their conversation became more and more frequently interrupted. People — other Dalish elves — stopped to give Taren their greetings, exchanging friendly well wishes for the holiday and peering at Dorian.Taren had to introduce him a few times, as holiday greetings were directed at both of them along with long, curious, looks. Dorian counted about a dozen _Aunties_ and _Uncles_ , and at least five _Grans_ , which seemed off, but he waved politely each time until Taren finally pulled him in closer to the crowd, where more of the younger townspeople and tourists had begun dancing. 

The crowd grew, accumulating more people as the band left the stage and a new group came on, this one all clearly Dalish elves, clad in traditional dress and displaying a colourful array of facial tattoos. Dorian stood awkwardly by his side, appreciating the music and quite determined not to dance, as Taren swayed a little and tapped his foot. The songs played by this new group were slower and gentler, and couples were leaning into one another, swaying together in time. 

“Big family,” Dorian commented as another elf waved at Taren from a distance, and on stage the musicians stopped to introduce their next number. 

“Yeah,” Taren shrugged, “that’s a Dalish clan for you.” He smiled, and tugged at Dorian’s arm again as the music picked up. “Hey come on, we’re joining this dance.” 

“Oh no we aren’t.” Dorian crossed his arms in protest. 

“It’s just a circle dance, watch —“ Taren pointed as members of the crowd, mostly other Dalish elves, but some humans and dwarves among them too, began to link hands. “Simple steps, I’ll show you.” 

Dorian kept his arms crossed, watching the ring form around them, an implacable look fixed squarely on his face. 

“It’s traditional,” Taren argued, and before Dorian could stop him Taren’s hand was clasped with that of another elf, and he was motioning with his free hand for Dorian. “You have traditional dances back home, don’t you?” 

“Maybe, but I’m something of an outsider here, am I not?” He replied, though the outstretched hand was tempting. There were traditional dances back home, but it was an art he’d never learned. He danced, if dancing was the word for it, in dark and crowded clubs, and exclusively there. 

“So? It’s easy, just step, step —“ Taren demonstrated, crossing his feet over one another in a vinestep to the side. Dorian shook his head, Taren shrugged and began to turn away reluctantly, with one last tempting offer of his hand. Dorian sighed, and took it. 

Taren grinned at him, someone else took his other hand, the music picked up to an even faster pace, and the dancers on the stage spun in complicated steps, moving their arms in a graceful routine as their elaborate, colourful dresses billowed and spun in the air. Voices rose up in an unfamiliar language, and the circle of people below began to turn. Dorian followed the steps, a simple pattern of crossing feet, around and around, then the circle dipped in, coming together with hands lifted. All around him, the circle was laughing and singing along, and Taren kept looking at him with that grin, a flush growing in his cheeks as the movements sped up. 

The song ended, and Dorian broke free, but he found he was laughing too, shaking his head and smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. Taren broke away with him, one hand still in his; easy —- natural. Taren took his other hand, and a new song started. 

“I’m going to keep you dancing.” Taren promised with a challenging glint in his eye and a grin on his face. 

“Fine, you win.” Said Dorian. 

Taren kept his feet moving in easy steps, leading him in a simple sway to the beat of the music, and smiling up at him like a madman. He shifted one hand to hold Dorian’s shoulder, bringing him closer, and Dorian let him lead the way, still shaking his head and laughing here and there as Taren shot him happy looks and grins. 

They weren’t dancing long before a tug at Taren’s coat diverted their attention and caused him to stop. A little girl with a sunny complexion and long braids of dark hair was looking up at Taren expectantly. Dorian stepped back as Taren leaned down. 

“Uncle Taren!” She called him, and he smiled warmly at her, saying “hey kiddo” _,_ and grinning some more. She raised both her arms up towards him, demanding a dance. Taren glanced at Dorian, and Dorian laughed. 

“By all means,” he regarded the child with very lighthearted ire, “steal my date.” 

The sarcasm didn’t seem to quite click, and the little girl stared up at him with wide eyes. 

“No really, go ahead.” He said, softening just slightly. The little girl bounced excitedly and grabbed both of Taren’s hands, pulling him away closer to the stage. He caught Taren’s promise of “just _one_ ” to her as they moved away. 

Dorian watched them dance away, Taren leading the girl in fast, surprisingly fancy footwork for a moment as she laughed, and then lifting her up by her arms to spin her around in a wide circle, which made her laugh even more. He shook his head, sighed to himself, and decided to get more cider while he waited. He moved to a stall at the edge of the lot, and while drinking his cider he stood aside, watching the crowd and taking in the colourful blur of the dancers on stage. He decided, for once, to try to just _take_ a moment, to store a tiny bit of whatever the hell he was doing, and keep it. Suddenly, a ball of snow thudded firmly into his arm, leaving a splotch of white powder on his soft black coat. He turned to look in the direction it came from, and saw the blond elf from the day before leaning by a tree nearby, bright lights dangling from its leafless branches. She was smirking at him, and forming another ball of snow in her hands. The nosy friend. She gestured for him to come over. 

“Hey, rich bitch,” she greeted him as he took a few steps towards her. He rolled his eyes. “Want some?” 

Sera revealed a flask from her coat, and offered it out expectantly. 

“Thanks, I’ve got it covered.” Dorian replied, revealing his own and giving it a little shake. Sera shrugged, opened hers, and took a swig. Dorian poured a small amount of his own whiskey into his cup of hot cider and joined her, the alcohol mixing pleasantly with the sugar and spice. 

“So you do drink.” Sera noted, watching him closely. 

Dorian scowled, wondering just which exaggerated rumours she’d been investigating. “And eat and sleep, just like a real boy.” He said. 

Sera made a face and crossed her arms. “Listen,” she began, voice a sharp bite against the singing and laughter around them, “Taren’s a _good person_.” 

Ah, a _protective_ nosy friend. He looked out again towards the crowd, where he could still see Taren twirling the little girl about as she danced enthusiastically alongside him. That annoying knot in his stomach pulled at him again. 

“Yes,” he said slowly, “I was beginning to get that impression.” 

“So don’t you think you can go messing with his head or whatever,” Sera went on, threateningly unspecific, “I’ve got _people_ , people you wouldn’t like to make angry.” 

Dorian took an unimpressed sip of his spiked cider. “Mess with his head?” He repeated, with a note in his tone that made it clear he was amused, “how exactly should I plan to do that?” 

Sera kept scowling, “just watch it.” She finished her threat with another swig from her flask, but just as Dorian was about to rebuke her with another snide comment, an excited dwarf bounced up and hugged her from behind. Sera’s expression and tone changed entirely, her face breaking into an excited grin. 

“Widdle!” 

The dwarf he recognized as Dagna, the ski lift operator from the other day. She planted a kiss on Sera’s cheek and offered Dorian a friendly wave. 

“Hi!” She exclaimed, when he waved back, “you’re Dorian Pavus, right? I’ve read a lot about you.” 

Sera went back to targeting him with a threatening smirk, while her arm wound its way around Dagna’s shoulders.

“Oh good,” quipped Dorian, “did you prefer the vicious slander or the salacious rumours?” He took another drink, and glanced again towards Taren and the dancing crowd. 

“Actually, I meant the paper you published with that professor Alexius,” Dagna barrelled on, and Dorian stopped glaring with a start, “exactly _how_ did you come to the conclusion that varied wave particles could be transmitted intermittently through space without a vortex emulator?” She began, and before Dorian could dig into an answer she had another question, and then a critical comment, then an appreciative remark about the genius of sub-particle calculations with relativity to current theories of time, and then three more questions. Dorian balked. 

“You weren’t kidding.” He said slowly, “I could send you some articles,” Dagna nodded along enthusiastically, “are you familiar with the theories of Livia Arida?” 

“Familiar? Try obsessed.” Dagna responded with redoubled enthusiasm, “astrophysics is a hobby of mine. Did you even consider the engineering applications of your theories? The stuff I could build, if what you published is true...” Sera nudged her before she could continue. “What? I wanted to see if he was really that smart.” Dagna shrugged, then looked back curiously at Dorian. “Why didn’t you stay at the university? I mean, it seems like a total waste of time, what you do now, not to mention —” 

“— Hey, are these two jerks bothering you?” Taren appeared at his side, interrupting Dagna’s newly accusatory set of questions with a joking tone and a tap at his arm. Sera stuck her tongue out at him, and Dagna giggled. 

“Not at all.” He replied smoothly, eliciting a smile from Dagna and a fresh glare from Sera. 

Dagna looked up at Sera, scrunching herself in tighter under the elf’s arm, and said “let’s go dance,” before pulling her away. Sera nodded happily, but made sure to shoot Dorian one last squinting look, and she called out “better watch yourself!” over her shoulder as they skipped away. 

“Sorry about that.” Taren said, once they were out of earshot. 

“It’s nothing, I was starting to miss the attention.” He replied, still smooth. Taren smiled and linked his arm around his. 

“Let’s go somewhere quieter.” He suggested, and Dorian let out a long breath. 

“Finally,” he murmured, “this has all been very, _very_ nice, but I must tell you,” he turned to catch Taren’s eye, pulling him a little closer with one of his smouldering looks, “I am not a nice man.” 

Taren chuckled lightly, and led him by the arm away from the festivities, down a lamplit side street that was free of colourful decorations, save for a few houses with roofs lined in strings of lights. 

“I saw your footwork out there,” Dorian commented with a complimentary air as they walked, “you’re quite good.” Taren smiled and shrugged a little, sheepish again under the compliment, “don’t tell me that there’s a dance troupe of children you volunteer with too.” 

Taren shrugged again. “There may be a traditional dance class at the community centre on weekends,” he admitted, and Dorian shook his head, laughing again. 

“You are the most ridiculous person I have ever met.” He said seriously, echoes of Sera’s comments sticking in his head. 

“Is that a good thing?” Replied Taren, hopeful. Dorian sighed. He wasn’t sure that it was, but he tried to ignore the swell of emotion tugging up against his chest again; that jealous, wanting pull from where Taren held to his arm that spread down through his whole body. Who was messing with whose head, anyway? Taren’s arm pulled him in tighter, and the urge to grab on to him overwhelmed whatever his answer could have been. He turned Taren towards him and pulled him into a fierce kiss. 

Taren pressed back into him, his arms wrapping tight up over his shoulders as Dorian’s hands lowered to his waist, his mouth eager, opening for more as the kiss deepened and his eyes closed. Dorian pulled at his lips again, giving in to the shudder of invisible, tightening strings that ran through him. Snow fell around them, glowing in the lamplight and crunching softly under their feet. A flake landed on Taren’s cheek as he pulled away, and Dorian brushed it off carefully, moving some of Taren’s untamed hair back away under his hat as he did, and landing his gaze in his eyes. 

“What are you doing tomorrow, for the holiday?” Taren asked, softly suggestive. The spell broke with the question, and Dorian sighed. 

“I have a video call with one of our foreign offices scheduled for six in the morning.” He muttered unhappily, “then there’s some end of year company meeting, and dinner with my father.” 

Taren stared at him. “You’re working?” Disbelief and furrowed brows, “but it’s —” 

Dorian shrugged. “No rest for the wicked.” He explained, and pulled Taren in for another kiss; this one greedy, and hard. “I suppose you’ll be delivering gifts to orphans, or some such absurdity?” He muttered, the chastisement affectionate as he pressed his lips up into the edge of Taren’s jaw. 

Taren chuckled, and it was an embarrassed laugh. “There’s a ah,” he hesitated, pulling away a bit and looking at Dorian with a self-deprecating shrug and a half-cocked smile, “holiday breakfast and story hour, for the kids, yeah.” 

Whatever jealous pangs of misdirected anger he’d felt before welled up now, a black and bitter wave hitting him directly in the gut. “Oh for fuck’s sake.” He exclaimed with a slight step back, looking at Taren incredulously. “You cannot be real.” 

Taren laughed another embarrassed sort of laugh, and shrugged. 

“You’re like some magical holiday elf. Your whole life is just holiday movie nonsense.” He went on, insulting, disbelieving, and despite himself, very jealous. 

“My life is not nonsense.” Taren looked back at him, suitably insulted. Dorian sighed, and the damned rope around his gut twisted again. 

“Fine, tell me one bad thing you’ve done.” Dorian challenged, still feeling uncomfortably bitter. 

Taren shrugged, and turned to keep walking. “You know that lumber yard we passed on the mountain?” Dorian walked with him, arms crossed now, nodding. “Some friends and I went back and spray painted the place.” He glanced at Dorian, “maybe dismantled some equipment.” 

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you say that company was violating land treaties and operating all sorts of unsustainable forestry practices?” 

Taren nodded. 

“So this is bad how?” 

Taren shrugged again. “It’s illegal.” 

“It’s sexy,” Dorian corrected, calming and desperately wishing to get Taren’s arm back in his, “stop trying to impress me.” He dropped every last ounce of anger from his tone, with effort, and slipped back into humble flirtation, carefully drifting a hand up to Taren’s shoulder. 

Taren looked back at him with a smirk, and took his arm again. “Not just yet.” He promised, arriving as he did in front of a wide brick building with rounded corners and double doors at its entrance. Taren pulled his keys from his pocket and unlocked the door, ushering Dorian inside before locking up again behind him. He turned to the wall by the door and flicked several switches, then the gallery lit up. 

Dorian looked around in brief bewilderment, blinking against the light. There were paintings on the walls, some huge and complicated, stretching out over wide spaces of wall in bright colours and abstract shapes. Others were more detailed, scenes of the valley, interpretations of animals with bold colours and symbolic, weaving patterns. Sculptures dotted the floors, tall and elegantly carved from wood or stone. In the centre a tree of wire and beads glittered under an array of coloured lights. Taren took his hand, and led him forward. 

“I told you,” Taren noted with a satisfied smirk as he watched Dorian’s face, which must have been wide-eyed and impressed. He sighed. 

Dorian walked slowly through the gallery, watching Taren almost as closely as he did the art. He stopped in front of an elaborate beaded tapestry, and noted the names on the plaque. More Lavellans. Much of the art was attributed to someone with the name, sometimes hyphenated. He wandered past a set of detailed paintings of wolves, then over to a wide wall covered in large canvases painted in a style he recognized. Dancers in bright dresses, sweeping aerial views of valleys; bold colours, lively faces. Then some that were more experimental; swirls of symbolic design with words in a language he couldn’t read and pictures laced subtly throughout. He looked over at Taren, and his elegant tattoos. 

“These are yours?”

Taren nodded. 

“Alright, I’m impressed.” He gazed for a long moment at one of the more abstract paintings, all weaving lines and symbols, glinting in silver and gold. “There’s language in this.” He commented, squinting at the lines of runic shapes decorating the design. 

Taren nodded again, smiling enthusiastically this time. “Mhm, stories.” He said. 

Dorian leaned back, and even though he knew he shouldn’t, he asked to know more. 

And how easily Taren shared, pointing out shapes and words he hadn’t seen, illustrating how the lines connected. Each painting a story told multiple ways, through multiple voices; symbols and pictures and words in tongues that almost no one spoke, anymore. Things he’d written down when he travelled, tales from traditions that were fading, in far away places. Dorian listened and watched him talk, his hands waving about and his speech impassioned, eyes sparkling with an excited light. Interesting as it all was, mostly he wanted to grab those wildly waving hands and kiss the excitement right out of him. 

As Taren finished, Dorian looked at the name on the plaque; just Taren Lavellan, no hyphen. “How does that work?” He gestured, “you can’t all be related.” 

Taren chuckled. “It’s the clan name. Sometimes people hyphenate, when they come from another clan,” he shrugged, “just an old Dalish tradition.” 

“Then how do you keep track?” 

Taren took his hand again and pulled him away, though his eyes lingered on the paintings as they walked. “I’ll show you.” 

Taren led him to another elaborately embroidered tapestry, this one in a room of its own, spanning a high, wide wall. It was embroidered by what seemed like many hands and in many styles, some simple, others swirling and complex, and still others interwoven with tiny colourful beads. It made a sort of tree, swimming down in vine-like threads along the wall, with names connected to each branch. 

“The elders keep this,” Taren explained as Dorian stood back to absorb the work in full. “Family trees as far back as the clan has been here.” The art of it was old, at the top, a little faded and worn, and newer near the bottom. He moved closer, reading the names. 

“Where are you?” He scanned carefully, noticing a few names he recognized from plaques in the gallery, and some others from the aunties and uncles he’d been introduced to in the dancing crowd. Taren pointed to a line of beaded embroidery near the bottom, and Dorian leaned in to read it. Two names linked down to his, and only his; an only child, apparently. 

“What do these blue threads mean?” He asked, noting how a few of the names entered into the tapestry with more than one thread, including his own family’s.

“That someone came from another clan, or somewhere else.” Taren shrugged, and smirked at him, “outsiders,” he joked in a tone that mocked Dorian’s earlier complaint. 

Dorian shook his head, admiring the smile again more than the art. “I seriously, honestly, hate you.” He claimed, pulling Taren into him as he did. 

Taren kissed him this time, leaning up into it and cupping Dorian’s face in his hands, pulling away with another warm smile.

“I don’t believe you.” He replied. 

Dorian couldn’t help but to grab him tighter, and pull him in for more. His kisses started to run deep, powerful and hungry with hands straying too far. “It’s probably bad form to want to fuck you in front of all your ancestors,” he said finally, leaning his head into Taren’s and speaking in a low growl. 

“My place, then.” Taren agreed, and pulled him from the gallery. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to this vaguely Thedas-adjacent modern AU of mine, where magic has been wholly integrated into Science and Art. My favourite thing about this chapter is how much stuff is happening in the background. I think Dagna just invented teleportation devices. Anyway, this story continues to sprawl a little bit out of my control, and I hope you are all enjoying these dumb nerds falling in love.


	4. Staying the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taren lights a fire, and things heat up... 
> 
> a little more steaminess, and how to not talk about your feelings.

Taren brought him home, leading them in the quickest route that still avoided the main streets, feet sinking into snow as they walked. The soft, heavy snowfall was gaining a crisp outer shell in the cold of the night, and their feet crunched through the layers of it in a rhythmic pattern along the otherwise quiet streets. 

He felt good. Happy. Happier than he had expected to be, this year, and he was trying not to worry too much about the rest of it. He steadied his thoughts with a deliberate sort of mindfulness, an appreciation for the simple things. Energy still in his limbs from dancing, heat still in his chest from the way Dorian looked at him. 

He shoved the sticky door to the side of his building open, and kissed Dorian again in the stairwell before pulling him up the steps. A long kiss, Dorian’s back up against the wall and Taren’s lips leaving his to trail down under that silly, silky scarf. 

He fumbled with his keys at the top, a mitten in his teeth as he unlocked the door, and then as they entered the apartment he frowned, and swore under his breath. It was freezing. 

“Hold on,” he muttered apologetically, not taking off his coat before darting over to the fireplace, kicking the radiator in his entryway with his foot as he went. “Old pipes. Give me a sec.” 

Dorian took off his coat carefully behind him, hanging things on hooks and rubbing his arms as he watched him, then taking a too-straight seat on his couch. Taren built a fire up quickly, lighting the tinder of old newspaper and thin bits of wood with a match, and carefully leaning a couple small logs over it as it caught. He brushed his hands off on his jeans and then quickly washed them at the kitchen sink, before turning to join Dorian on the couch. 

“Did you just build a fire?” Dorian was watching the flames flick up and grow, leaning in a bit closer and a bit less stiffly towards the warmth. “That was fast.” 

“Please tell me you can build a fire, Dorian.” Taren replied, removing his coat and tossing it over a dining chair before sinking into the cushions beside him with a little shake of his head. 

“Of course I can. I can do all the rugged, manly things, trust me.” Dorian shot back, “build a fire, change my car’s oil, use a power tool, degrade women. I’ve had nothing but the best tutulage. That was just… fast.” Too heavy handed to be funny, but he had to sort of snigger;

“Tutulage?”

“Oh nevermind,” Dorian pulled him into his side and dug a hungry kiss into his neck, and Taren decided that he didn’t really want to know. 

He moved into Dorian, kissing him and feeling his arms close in around him, warm and tight and then explorative, eager. He moved a hand under his shirt, a black pullover that was thick and plain, but somehow not; soft rich fabric under his fingers, just tight enough to see the curve of muscles around his chest and biceps. Dorian kissed him deeper, mirroring the action quickly, his hands sliding up Taren’s chest and then fully tearing his lumpy old cable-knit away. Dorian’s lips traced his collar bone and landed with slow draws on his shoulder, his neck, the base of his ear. He hummed and moved into it, warm skin under his hands as he peeled Dorian’s clothing away. Dorian pulled him onto him, legs straddling his as Dorian moved his hands to his jeans, and soon all their clothes were scattered on the floor. 

Dorian took him and kissed him with force and want, pulling him in close with strong hands and going gently, but hungrily with his mouth wherever he would. Trailing over his chest, kissing down the bones of his hips, their faces digging into one another and kisses turning to long pulls of lips at throats, to playful bites. Dorian pushed him back, set him standing before him, flexing fingers over his thighs that sent shivers up Taren’s entire spine. He moved with purpose, and his mouth felt hot and fierce around him, his hands dextrous and wanting. Taren moaned under his touches, breath catching in his throat as he watched his lover with open eyes, all copper skin and dark hair, gorgeous mouth over his body, those steely, sometimes sad eyes sparking up at him now with mischievous light. Dorian took him faster, stronger, playing at him with his lips and his tongue and hands, driving him — what was it? Crazy? Yeah. Fucking crazy. 

When he almost couldn’t take any more, he stood Dorian up, brought his face close with his hands and kissed his lips long and slow and aching as he reached his own hands downward, taking over, pushing back. They didn’t talk much, a few words here and there — Dorian answered questions, but didn’t give much direction — so he tried to match his pace, even though he was going crazy, doing more of whatever made him moan and moaning back — _fuck_ — moaning back at pretty much _everything_ Dorian did to him. 

The living room got hot, fire burning bright in front of them, and by the end of it all they were both sweating, still kissing, laughing a little, swearing. The air was sex and sweat and wood burning in the fireplace, pine and dark, smoky spices. Heat and energy practically fogged up the windows as the cold, peaceful night lay quietly outside. 

Taren settled back onto the couch with a sigh, pulling Dorian in under his arm. He watched his face as he leaned back, closed his eyes, and let out a long, deep breath. 

“Good time?” Taren asked with a playful nudge to Dorian’s shoulder. 

“I hate you,” he breathed back through a smile, looking over at him through one open eye, his chest rising and falling in a heavy, slow rhythm. 

Taren chuckled, and after taking a few more breaths of his own, stood to get cleaned up. The pipes grumbled angrily at him as he woke them up, starting the water for the shower, and he let it run cold over his skin for a few minutes, rinsing away the sweat and heat. He left the shower running, getting warmer as he left it, and brought two towels out to the living room. 

Taren wrapped his own towel around his waist, and handed the other to Dorian with a quick, friendly smile. Then as Dorian left to shower, he cleaned up his own clothes and left Dorian’s folded on the couch. He dressed quickly, throwing on a t-shirt he found in a drawer and the same pair of jeans, then returning to the living room. He tended the fire, regulated the heat and turned a log over. When Dorian came out again he was finding them glasses from the kitchen and filling them with water, and filling his kettle for the stove. 

“Hey,” he smiled, “tea?” 

Dorian shrugged and dressed quickly, then came over to where Taren had set out the water on his dining table. He took a glass and stood by, taking a slow sip. The kettle whistled, and Taren went ahead and made them both some tea. 

“So,” he began, as he placed Dorian’s mug on the table too, “will that phone number you left before work, when you’ve gone?” 

Dorian coughed and set down his water glass. “I left you my number.” He said, like he was just remembering, shaking his head. Taren felt himself smirking. He raised an eyebrow expectantly and nodded. “Sorry.” Dorian shook his head, “sort of worthless, wasn’t it? But yes, it should...” he finally answered, hesitation as he went on, “though sex is quite a lot less fun that way.” 

Taren hummed thoughtfully, “that isn’t why I want it.” He replied with another smirk, as he leaned back against the counter, sipping his tea. 

“Oh?” Dorian looked like he was trying not to smile, some conflict between his brows as his eyes glinted up at him, “and what exactly do you want from me, anyway?” 

What did he want? Late night conversations and fire, comfort and desire, to make him smile, and to listen to him moan, and maybe to just keep doing it, for as long as he could. 

“Just this, mostly.” Taren said. He blew on his tea, watching the conflicted look twitch around in Dorian's eyes, still seeming to hold back a smile. 

"So you'd what, call me?" 

"That's the idea." He nodded, offering up another smile. "Call me crazy, but I'm _almost_ as interested in just talking to you." He took a sip of tea and tried to look more flirtatious than moony. He doubted he was doing very well. 

"Alright, you're crazy." Dorian replied as he shook his head, but stepped closer. "You don't even really know me." 

"I know enough," he had resisted the urge, actually, to do a thorough search of Dorian's name online. When one looked up _Taren Lavellan_ , an entry came up for the store, and for the gallery. Research publication sites had his thesis paper, if you really dug for it, and there were a few small time newspaper articles about his promoting a local cause. It didn't really seem fair that he could potentially go online to find tabloid articles and gossip columns hissing about Dorian's life. And anyway, he'd much rather just get to know the real thing, in his own time. "Enough to know I like you," he continued, "that I'd like to keep talking to you, after you go." He shrugged, "maybe more." 

"More?" Dorian scoffed, though the indignation didn't really sit right. Too hesitant, too much flush in his cheeks. 

Taren nodded again. He hadn't exactly thought it through, but why not? He'd been known to travel. A trip back and forth now and then, regular communication — nothing that needed a name, just… more. "Or you can tell me what you want." He offered, still watching the uncertainty play out on Dorian's face, and wondering just how crazy he really seemed. 

"Things I can't have, usually." Dorian muttered, arms crossing, "My life is," he paused, a flash of guilty annoyance crossing his face, "it's very different from yours." 

Taren frowned at the look — the one he kept giving him right after his smiles, like it was a crime just to be happy. He took a sip of his tea. "That doesn't answer my question," he noted, trying to keep his voice steady and to calm his heart with the slow sip. "What do you want?" 

Dorian shook his head, apparently clearing it of whatever unspoken things were going on inside it, and took another step towards him. His features smoothed, guilt to charm and sad eyes to embers, "I’m a simple man, Taren." He insisted, "I want one thing, and one thing only from you, as many times as I can get it." 

He leaned into him, pushing him up against the counter and meeting his lips with a long kiss. Taren put his mug down beside him, and pulled him in for another. But as lust took over and conversation faded into more immediate and excited thoughts, he felt the swell of deeper emotions: closeness, helplessness, need. Behind every kiss and laced through every touch was his answer. 

"I don't believe you," he whispered, and then Dorian pressed into him and pulled at his clothes and groped at his skin, like he was trying to prove him wrong. 

\---- 

When they had both cleaned up a second time, water glasses drained and tea gone cold, Taren took an exhausted seat on the couch, motioning for Dorian to join him. He did, but again stiffly; dancing between comfortable in his sweat-licked, sex-driven skin and uncomfortable in his embrace so much it was starting to make Taren dizzy. 

“Do you want to stay the night?” He asked, planting a soft kiss on Dorian’s cheek and waiting to see if he flinched. He didn’t, but the conflict was back in his brows. The roads were safe enough, since the snow had stopped, and with the festival ending and the few pubs closing, there would be a slow line of cars to follow back up the mountain. But it wasn’t exactly early, either, and impressive stamina or no, he was bound to be tired. 

Dorian sighed under him. “I shouldn’t.” He said, again reluctant, “Early meetings.” 

Taren shrugged. “I don’t mind; I’ll make you coffee.” 

Dorian chuckled at that, an almost unhappy laugh, darkly amused by the offer, which made Taren blush. There were a lot of things he still wanted to ask, like: _why the hell do you live like this?,_ and, _what’s so scary about just having a nice time, exactly?_ , but he was fairly sure they weren’t questions Dorian would want to answer. So instead he said, “it’s no good being alone on a holiday,” which had the benefit of applying to both of them. 

“Selfish, are we?” Dorian replied, leaning into him a little more, musing over the words like he was fixing them to make a good excuse. Taren hummed in approval. 

“Gets cold here. Old pipes.” He offered him another line, ready to supply him with excuses all night long, if he had to. 

“Can’t have that.” Dorian continued musing, and Taren nodded, leaning his head into his side.

There were magnets in his skin, probably. Magic magnets that stuck to his blood and made letting go of him excruciatingly difficult, and from the way Dorian sighed again and turned to press a long, lingering kiss onto his lips he was sure Dorian felt them too.

“Fuck it,” Dorian said, when the kiss ended, muttering to himself again, “it _is_ supposed to be a vacation.” 

Taren smiled, letting magic magnets and holiday cheer be enough for now, and pulled Dorian from the couch to his bed, where he pressed himself up tight against the warmth of him and let wandering, sleepy touches carry them both off without too many more words.

\----

Morning came with beeps from Dorian’s phone, somewhere near his bed in the still-dark of early morning, and Taren groaned. Dorian’s chest was at his cheek, an arm draped over his shoulder and his face buried in a pillow, and Taren stretched out long, unwinding his legs from where they'd interwoven with Dorian’s. It was four thirty in the morning, which was insane, and Dorian seemed to be slumbering right on through the cacophony of electric beeps filling up his bedroom. He nudged him gently and gave his bare shoulder a light kiss, and Dorian shivered. One more time, and his eyes fluttered open. Pretty, peaceful, and happy to see him. He smiled. 

“Lo Satinalia,” he greeted him, then as the repetitive tune of angry beeps started up again, he shook his head, “your phone.” 

Dorian sat up quickly, something not-quite panicked, but very like it, on his face. “Shit.” He said, silencing the alarm. 

“Coffee.” Taren said resolutely, unable to form more of a sentence without it. They’d slept mostly naked, and he stumbled from the bed without bothering to find clothes, slouching barefoot and shirtless out into the living room to put on the kettle and grind some beans. Some minutes later he was swirling around the dark liquid in his coffee press and pushing the handle down, as Dorian emerged from the hall fully dressed, and somehow with his hair styled back into place, looking too good for it to be this early. 

He found a battered metal travel mug in the back of his cupboard, and poured a full cup of coffee into it, offering it out. Dorian took the cup with a very thankful nod, and then a deep sip of it, still black. 

"I can make eggs or something," he offered, half the sentence fighting its way out through a long yawn. 

Dorian chuckled, and shook his head. "Don't you dare." He replied. He glanced at his watch, "I really have to go." 

Taren nodded, "I figured," he answered, offering up the pitcher of coffee to top off Dorian's mug, "you can take it with you," 

"Mm, you just want me to have a reason to come back." Dorian taunted in return, and took another sip.

"Maybe," Taren tried to smirk, but it became interrupted by another yawn. 

"I'll see what I can do." Dorian promised in a low voice, mischief back in his gaze. Too early to be this good at flirting, too. 

Taren took the cup as Dorian got his coat, refilling it with coffee. When he turned again, Dorian kissed him, long, even though Dorian tasted faintly of mint and Taren definitely did not. He passed him the mug, and with a sigh, Dorian turned to leave. Then with another, much heavier sigh, he turned around again. 

"Taren," he hesitated, Taren caught his eye, watched his jaw tense and release, "people don’t — people don't usually ask me for _'more'"_ Taren watched him struggle through another long pause, resisting the urge to take him by the shoulders and say _well I am! I am._ Though from the look on Dorian's face he wondered if he could hear it, beating out of his chest. "I'm… I'm not sure I have it to offer." There was a very apologetic attempt at a smile, so Taren made a very sympathetic attempt not to frown, heart still threatening to thud right out of him. 

"Then how many more nights of this?" He asked, bracing himself for the blow. 

"Not enough." Dorian replied, kissing him again, doing a terrible job of leaving. "Honestly, I'm not sure there should even be _any._ " Taren found himself unable to hold back his frown. "We're both only going to wind up disappointed." Dorian warned, then, halfheartedly, he tried to pass the coffee mug back again. 

"I'll risk it." Taren said, pushing the cup back into Dorian's hands. 

Dorian shook his head, mouth wavering in its frown like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t, just ran a hand through his hair and turned away again. He left without promises, leaving Taren to his apartment, wondering worriedly if he would ever actually see his travel mug, or Dorian, again. 

He turned and looked over his living room, thin light rising in the sky outside his window and casting dim shadows through his slightly parted curtains. The backs of his eyes hurt, looking at that pale grey sky, and he sighed to himself, thinking about all the times he’d fallen foolishly in love. The worst taste, he could practically hear his friends lamenting for him, a hopeless romantic just looking to get his heart broken again. What had Dorian said about wanting things he couldn’t have? He was used to people who wouldn’t stay, a perpetual port in a storm. But as storms went, Dorian was the worst yet. 

“Forget it,” he said to the empty apartment, “it's Satinalia. You’re going to go read stories to kids, and it’s going to be fine.” Saying the words aloud didn’t make them feel much more real, and he gave his head a shake before wandering drowsily back to his bed. He set an alarm on the clock radio by his bed and wrapped himself back up in the sheets, which still smelled like Dorian; lingering scents of a cologne with deep, dark floral notes, faint traces of sex, soap, sweat. He breathed it in, closing his eyes and drifting away. 

\----

He woke to the tail end of a jaunty holiday carol, sounding shallow and tinny on his little clock radio speakers. It ended in bells and faded away, a loud, excited voice piping in over the end to wish all the station listeners a happy holiday. 

_And that was number four on our list of holiday-carols-that-don't-suck-arse! It's the one day of the year we play 'em, and we only play the good ones. Now, some of you listeners mighta wanted a full Dalish eight, or even an old fashioned Tevinter twelve, but holiday songs are friggin' shite, so you only get the one!  
_

He was pretty sure that message was directed at him, personally, and he rolled his eyes at the radio as he got out of bed, turning it up so that he could hear it from the kitchen. 

Taren made his way over to the pot of cold coffee and poured himself a hefty mug, downing it with a grimace and shaking his head to will some wakefulness into it. 

_Now we have some community service announcements to make,_ the radio prattled on as he opened his fridge, pulling put an egg carton. _Eveybody's Auntie Dee asks that if you're coming out to the dinner tonight, consider bringing an extra dish for those who can't, and I want to personally ask that, for the love of all that is right and good, you bring something, anything, other than pasta sauce —_ Taren chuckled, warming a pan on the stove and cracking two eggs into it — _and a Friendly reminder to all you Jennies that it's a Silent Night in the valley tomorrow. Keeps is offering rides from the shop if you know how to ask._ Taren nodded to himself, watching the eggs on the pan splurt and bubble, flipping them, sprinkling them with a quick pass of a spice blend, and turning off the heat. He had bread in his breadbox and too much pasta sauce in his fridge, so he had eggs on toast and sauce over that and more cold coffee, picking up the book on his coffee table and trying, really trying, to appreciate his festive little tree, while another happy holiday jingle came on.


	5. Dangerous Driving At Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian has a bad day. 
> 
> Halward Pavus manages to be racist, homophobic, transphobic, and a threat to the environment in this one. Welcome to the conflict of the story.

Dorian arrived to his call fifteen minutes late. He managed to blame it on the mountain reception and the snowy weather, and talked his way through the drivel. It was all just bureaucratic updates, anyway. Could-have-been-an-email busywork. The meeting afterwards, an hours-long crunch of board discussions and voting and presentations and bragging, he was on time for. Early, actually. Because he had presentations of his own to make, and he wasn’t about to be ignored. 

Halward Pavus sat at the head of the long dark table, fingers towered villainously, head high and chin pointed forward. He droned through the long list of business; yearly reports, expense investments, stock projections, and on, and on. Then to the business that mattered, investment portfolios and propositions for the coming year — and Dorian had ideas. 

Halward Pavus’ success in business came primarily in investing in the right technologies at the right times. The company, so said the ghostwriter of his autobiography, was driven with the motto of investing only in that which he could believe in. As far as Dorian could tell, what he believed in was money. But there was a time when he’d been given an impassioned speech by the very same man about the virtues of human ingenuity, the triumphs of science. Some patriotic pride had filled his father, around the time that the Magisterium had managed to explore Thedas’ second moon, and he’d been rather forward leaning for a while there. Magazines used to call him a visionary. Magazines now seemed to pay a great deal more attention to the downfall of his peers under the upheaval of lewd secrets in the changing times, and the lewd secrets of his own son. He raved now about the glory days of old Tevinter, when men were men and hard work had meaning and something about smoking cigarettes in offices, probably. Dorian usually tuned it out. Because Dorian believed in other things, and if there was funding to dole out he did his best to see it given to worthy endeavours; labs researching cures for diseases, new strides in robotics; more of that human innovation (and elvhen, and dwarven, hell, even Vashoth or Qunari if he could sneak it past his father) that had gotten them to the stars. It was the one thing he could do with his birthright that seemed worthwhile. 

He didn’t get his chance. 

Before he could offer up his suggestions — meticulously crafted reports on worthy investments, painstakingly compiled with impeccable research and attention — Halward Pavus made an announcement that the next endeavour was already being considered: a logging company expanding its reach rapidly across the region. A proposal that was wildly flawed, which Dorian had already rejected personally, and with great impatience, days ago.

His jaw dropped, and his face grew hot. Even before seeing it out on the hills, even before watching Taren as he clenched his fists and shook his head in decrying it, Dorian had dealt with this particular weaseling potential client. He had picked them apart on policy alone, been insulted in their meeting, insulted right back, and stormed out. Then he’d gone and had the decision validated almost immediately, seeing the impact of their business in the valley first hand. He had thought it a passing, happy accident, that he should get to yell insults at the rude businessmen bent on ruining the perfect valley, before he had even realised just how beautiful it was. Now, he stood up. 

“What?” he demanded to know.

Halward Pavus looked at him with mocking patience, and repeated his decision. A murmur of approving nods followed in a wave around the table. 

“No we are not.” Dorian said, “we  _ rejected _ that proposal, on the grounds that it was  _ bullshit. _ ” 

Shaking heads and muttering, several dozing old executives leaned in, perking up at the argument. 

“You rejected it.” Halward corrected. 

“I have that say.” Dorian countered hotly. 

“And I say that the projected profits warrant further review.” Halward retaliated with cold certainty. 

“Projected profits? And what about the risk of a class-action lawsuit from the Dalish clan whose lands they encroach on, where would that factor into your projected profits?”

Halward Pavus chuckled dryly, a sound that was echoed by a few other grey old men around the table. “I’m sure if it came to that, our resources would far outlast theirs.” 

“It’s  _ their land _ !” 

Another dry laugh, “aren’t they a wandering people? If they don’t appreciate the growth of industry and the jobs it will bring, they can move on.” 

“And the complete unsustainability of their business model? Only barely skirting by environmental regulations?” 

“Regulations can be loosened with the right hand.” Halward sneered, a thin smile over his lips. Of course they could, and had been, to suit his “projected profits” before; it was hardly the first time Dorian had tried to be a voice against corporate corruption. “And as I said, your decisions about their policy will be under further review.” An argument about the ethics of lobbying he expected, but to question his findings on the science? 

“You won’t find more favourable conclusions unless you doctor them. And I won’t  _ let _ you doctor them.” Dorian promised. 

“If the proposal can’t meet our standards, then you have nothing to worry about," Halward waved him off with an impatient sigh, and Dorian sat back down, arms crossed and foot tapping with aggravation. He pushed forward the reports he’d prepared and tried to dazzle on with the proposals he had put together — projected profits almost as good as what those liars from the lumber group had to offer, with less weight on the soul. Halward Pavus nodded and flipped through his paperwork, humming disinterestedly, and then his turn was up, and someone brought up something else, and the meeting went on. And on. All while Dorian quietly seethed and tapped his foot and drank too much coffee and tried to glare holes into the slideshow presentation on  _ Synergizing Corporate Success by High-Valuing Personal Productivity in the Coming Year,  _ that a marketing head gave to conclude the meeting. 

He did not have enough colourful words, even pulling from the academic language of Ancient Tevene and the buzzwords of business, to express how much he hated his job. 

What he did have, was three hours. Three hours to spend revamping his proposals to highlight the best of what their investment potential had to offer, and to compose a thorough email further taking down that of the timber group. He did so in a wild flurry of fast-typing fingers in the resort’s lounge, looking up only occasionally to let his eye wander up the hills of the mountain. Then he would furrow his brows at the glorious carpet of distant forests, and return to work. He drank three more cups of coffee, Taren sneaking into his mind each time he stood for a refill. 

This wasn’t about him. It never would have been and shouldn’t  _ become  _ about him, because Dorian couldn’t  _ have _ Taren. Couldn’t have happy snow-filled days and long, relaxing nights. Couldn’t have restful sleep on low mattresses in cozy apartments, could probably never wake up to gentle kisses at his shoulder again. It wasn’t about him, it was about what was right and it was about the planet and it was about doing his  _ job _ , and doing it well. But. 

What would Taren think? 

He added a generous pour of liquor to his coffee — chocolate liqueur today, because it was a holiday — and got back to work. Taren would probably think he was a corporate stooge, a spoiled rich brat, one of his father’s evil lackeys. He could explain, he thought, about all the times he’d tried to fight back against support for conversion-therapy-funding chicken restaurants and turning open-source technologies into military profits, and maybe then Taren would still want to talk to him, but it was pointless to think about. Because he had to go home, didn’t he? Had to take his place in his father’s company and go on living fast and working hard and not waking up, never waking up, to kisses and cooked eggs and volunteer work with children. It wasn’t real. This place, this feeling, none of it was his to keep and none of it was real. It was the high of vacation and the drunkenness of good sex and the smell of his skin — fasta  _ fucking  _ vass, his skin. Holiday magic and fairy tales. A fantasy. Not real. 

He returned to his cabin before dinner to change, fixing his hair and sorting out his things. It was there, between picking out the right tie and smoothing out one of his favourite shirts (because it was, even if it didn’t really feel like it, a holiday, and he was doing his best to give himself  _ something _ for the occasion, even if he couldn’t have what he really wanted), that he found the pamphlet he’d taken from Taren’s shop on that very first night. 

It sat where he had tossed it, still folded and covered in thin pencil marks, on the bedside table. Dorian sat on the bed with a heavy sigh, his eye glancing over the simple typography of the brochure, which was decorated in pictures of local buildings and various advertisements. He picked it up, taking in the circles Taren had left over various local attractions. He’d left him notes, he realised; circled a few shops and restaurants and then written “good wine,” and “expensive chocolates,” and “dancing on Saturdays,” next to them in looping, lightweight script. Dorian smiled down at it, shaking his head. Taren really was too nice for his own good, he thought; half endeared, and half bitter about it. Too nice for him, it was certain. He flipped through the pages of the brochure anyway, reading every one of Taren’s little notes, until he came to  _ Lavellan’s Crafts _ . 

Next to the name of the shop and a picture of the bear sculpture in its window, was a phone number and a website, just as all the other items in the pamphlet offered. But next to that, written in Taren’s delicate and rounded handwriting, was another string of numbers, with the word  _ “landline” _ written next to it accompanied by a suggestive little exclamation point. 

Dorian shook his head again. He wanted him to call. Even before any real words had been spoken, he’d sat there with his soft smiles and his happy hospitality and he’d thought, “call me”. Why, why in the world would he have thought a thing like that? 

Finally, for the first time since he had shaken the heavy, downward-tugging pull at his  _ everything _ out of himself on the cold street in the early hours of the morning, Dorian thought about what Taren had asked:  _ what did he want? _

Anything but the life he had. 

He had been trying to make peace with it, to do good with it, to still have his fun playing hard on the weekends while running himself ragged at work during the week — all while trying not to lose his soul to it — but he’d really had no concept of what peace was supposed to look like. And then he had come here, and met Taren, who seemed to embody the concept, and now he wanted… 

More things he couldn’t have. 

He wouldn’t. Wouldn’t call Taren after he’d left, wouldn’t try to take any of this home except for maybe a newfound appreciation for dark beers. He wanted to, _ fasta fucking venhedis optimized-for-growth viral shitshow of a vass _ , he wanted to, but he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. It would have been nice to have gotten to fuck him just a few more times; maybe if they had talked less, and drunk more, he could have fucked him a few more times, but he couldn’t keep doing this. Not after the way Taren had looked at him that morning. Not after how long he’d spent stuck in his doorway, ropes around his heart and gut, practically binding him to the place. It was time to cut those ties, and cut them clean. He crumpled the pamphlet into a tight ball, squeezing it in his hand too hard, jaw clenched and wrist tensed and then he threw it in the little garbage can by the bed, and threw some other trash on top, just to be safe. Dorian grabbed his coat without a look back, and went to have dinner with his father. 

\----  


Halward wanted to partake in the Satinalia special at the quiet five-star restaurant sitting pretty on the top floor of the main lodge. Like the lounge, the restaurant faced the ski hills, with a wide wall of windows decorated in garlands of holly leaves and pine, looking out at the grey dusk forming over the mountains. Clouds misted low at their peaks, and a thin sliver of moon was just risen between two of the mountains overhanging Lavellan Valley, dangling in the dim light as wisps of colour began to dance in and out of the clouds. He stood looking off towards the sky for a while too long, willing his mind into neutral blankness, before the host caught his eye and he managed to get his name out and be guided to his table. 

The place was full, reservations all but impossible to obtain, diners murmuring to one another over expensive hors d'oeuvres and rich, deep red wines. He straightened his posture as he walked, attempting to find pleasure in the turning of heads, and tore his eyes away from the mystical landscape outside. 

Halward was already seated, scanning his menu with preformative focus, only raising an eyebrow for Dorian’s arrival, rather than his whole gaze. A perturbed eyebrow. Dorian sat and picked up his own menu, holding back his sigh. 

Wine came, and both men took long sips, still silent across from one another. Halward made some inquiries to the waiter about the steak, Dorian’s eye drifted back out the window. The silence stretched on, shot with the occasional cold glance. Eventually, Dorian spoke up. 

“Did you have a chance to look over the email I sent after today’s meeting?”   


Perturbed eyebrow, restrained sigh. “No business at dinner tonight, Dorian. It’s Satinalia, be respectful.” 

Dorian almost snorted. Now he cared about the holiday? “If it’s such an important day, then why was I up at six discussing statistics program subscriptions with our foreign offices?” 

“Because they need to be renewed each year, and the year is coming quickly to an end.” Halward answered, his gaze on Dorian now, but still distant, “if you had been at the orientation, perhaps that task could have gone to someone less  _ overqualified _ , but you chose tardiness while my assistant chose timeliness. It seemed a fitting reward to give him Satinalia morning off, and have you make his calls.” 

Dorian rolled his eyes. Not that the poor sap beneath him didn’t deserve the break, but it still could have been an email. Early morning calls were a punishment for a disobedient son who could no longer be grounded or denied an allowance, and they both knew it.

“The roads were bad.” Dorian replied, using the same flimsy excuse he had given before, while his father raised his perturbed eyebrow again, and returned to gazing blankly at the menu. “I don’t appreciate being treated like a child.” 

“Then don’t act like one.” said his father, again with barely a glance up. 

Now, Dorian was annoyed. He bored into his father’s forehead with a bitter glare. “You have me doing worthless work while you're supporting the worst kinds of people, and for what?” he demanded, knowing full well that he was baiting an argument they'd had countless times before, and all but chomping at the bit to have it out. A colourful outlet for his already disgruntled mood.

His father sighed, and finally met his eye. They had the same eyes; hard and steely grey, deep-set and tired. “For this family, Dorian, for your legacy.” Halward answered with concrete immovability, his eyes dull and bored and disappointed, as usual. 

_ Legacy _ . His father’s favourite word. Dorian combated the look with icy seriousness. “What legacy, if we ruin the fucking planet? I won’t support it.” he crossed his arms; he had some say, complicated as the power dynamics of being Halward Pavus’ son were, he’d gained a fair bit of acumen both as a scientist and a businessman all on his own — maybe even enough to overturn a decision, if he could garner the votes. But the game was still rigged against him, and Halward looked back at him with the continued disinterest of a king facing an empty threat from a cur. Desperate, Dorian sighed. “Would you just  _ look _ at the proposals I arranged?” Halward grunted, and Dorian pressed on: “ _ principles _ , that's what you would say,  _ we've got to have our principles, Dorian. _ ” Halward Pavus loved nothing better than his own words, “you tell me I can check over the science, be your expert, and then you won’t listen to a thing I have to say!” he was getting louder, heat rising from his chest and the ice in his argument quickly melting under passionate fire, “ _ invest in things you believe in _ , was that not supposed to be your guiding principle? How can you believe in this?”

His father remained cold, his thin lips curling into a snide smirk and his tongue held behind a clenched jaw, just waiting. 

“I spent hours collecting proposals far more worthy, and just as profitable, and that ought to be worth something!” Dorian finished, running out of air as he angrily pleaded his case. 

“Very well,” said his father, with painful slowness, “no one ever accused my ungrateful son of not being bright.” At this point, the words only barely stung. Dorian resisted the urge to roll his eyes and took a thirsty sip of his wine. 

But his father wasn’t finished with him. “ _ Other _ things, however…” his words bit into the air with an accusatory snap. 

Dorian set his wine down, and found that his eyes couldn’t help themselves from rolling. “Yes, yes, satanic rituals, riotous orgies, socialism, the list goes on.” 

Halward breathed out an annoyed, put-upon and endlessly tired sigh, “how is it that even  _ here _ you manage to find ways to parade your impropriety?” 

“Oh dear father,” Dorian feigned injury, “what have I done that you deem  _ improper _ now?” 

“Showing up late to scheduled appointments, for one. You were late to today’s call.” How Halward even knew that was a question Dorian had no hope to answer; his father always seemed to somehow know about his every minor infraction in productivity. 

“Well I’m sorry for sleeping in by a whole fifteen minutes, on  _ Satinalia. _ ” 

“And doing so where exactly? Not your cabin, apparently. Which I am paying for, I might remind you.” his father raised an expectant eyebrow, watching him, and Dorian wished he would go back to disinterestedly tolerating his presence. He felt an all-new wave of heat and anger wash over him. 

“I don’t have to listen to this. I’m an adult, and where I sleep is my business.” 

“Not when it conflicts with  _ my  _ business, it isn’t. Are you or are you not getting up to things with some  _ knife-eared _ local?” The accusatory scorn over the racial slur was almost comical in its villainy. 

“Getting up to things?” Dorian laughed haughtily, “what sorts of things do you imagine I’ve been getting up to, pray tell?” 

“Dorian.” A first warning. There would be one more, with heavier inflection, then a third with his full name, and then he’d find himself on the losing side of the argument, somehow, holding back angry tears until he could find a bottle of something strong to drown them in. 

“I wasn’t aware that I was under restrictions not to leave the resort. Are all of your employees disallowed from sightseeing, or just the ones you love best?” Dorian continued undaunted by the warning, living the very definition of insane. 

“And your rejection of the forestry proposal isn’t at all influenced by your fraternization with some Dalish?” 

“Man.” Dorian snapped, inadvertently giving ground to his father as he did, “some Dalish man. He’s not some wholly other thing.” 

Dorian watched in burning, helpless rage as his father let out a long, dry laugh. “With their features, I’m not sure how one could even tell.” 

“Congratulations, I do believe you’ve just managed to say something that’s utterly bigoted on at least three different levels.” Dorian fell upon the sword of sass he’d been baited to beautifully, raising his voice so that the entire quiet dining room could hear, gaining himself some curious looks and forgetting for the moment the inevitable consequences, “but since you’re clearly ever so curious, yes, he  _ does _ have a lovely cock.” 

Halward choked on his wine, and put the glass down with a start. Good. Dorian grew louder. 

“A great, fantastic cock that I’d like to” — 

“ _ Dorian! _ ” 

If Dorian had a temper, then he got it from somewhere. Halward Pavus slammed both hands down onto the table, wine jumping from their glasses in little pricks of red as the layers of cutlery and china in front of them rattled with the impact. His face turned red, eyes squinting and a dent forming between his brows, and for a moment Dorian felt like he was a child again; small and wrong and ashamed. The heat of his own temper receded under the fire of his father's, and he stood up, still steaming with what was left of it. 

“Merry Satinalia,” he spat, pushing in his chair with a forceful shove, and walking proudly — more than anything he needed it to be proudly — away. 

\----

He was halfway down the mountain before he realised what he was doing. And he was driving too fast, his head still in the argument on the top floor of the lodge, ranting and muttering under his breath every curse word and comeback he could think of, trying and failing to imagine his father’s face in remorseful defeat. He took a corner too hard and felt his car’s tires slip over an icy rivet in the road, jolting him in a panic to his senses. He eased on the breaks a little, tried to focus, shook his head and — 

Slam. Swerve. His body careening forward and then slamming back into the driver’s seat as he skidded into the snow, miraculously stopping short of a large tree and narrowly avoiding the antlered creature that had just hopped out in front of him. It disappeared into the shadows of the trees, intricate antlers and bright white fur blurring past before he could take account of the first and only live halla he had ever seen.

“Shit.” he said, switching gears to try to reverse out of the snowbank that had saved his life. “Shit,  _ shit _ .” he continued, as his tires spun uselessly over the slippery ground. Dorian got out of his car and shut the door with a hard slam. The front tires of his car were buried in a thick pile of snow, enveloping most of the hood of his car in white powder and revealing a rut of ice and dirty snowplow runoff underneath. He kicked a tire with his foot, still in his dress shoes, and stubbed his toe in the process, swearing again. He opened the driver’s side door, took a seat, and bent his head into his hands, muffling a mangled scream of pent up frustration and disappointment; anguish and rage. He took several panting breaths, flexed and unflexed his fists, then got out of the car again, and began digging. He didn’t have a shovel, or even gloves, so he tore at the snowbank with his bare hands until he couldn’t feel them anymore, barely making a dent. He pushed at the hood of his car, kicked the tires and aggravated his aching toe, and went back to digging at the snow. Eventually the tires were revealed, black and solid against the crumbling pile of dirty snow he’d shoved away from them, and he got back into his car while the eerie sound of howling wolves drifted by him on the wind. 

Dorian swore some more, interchanging the mutterings under his breath from desperate pleas to his car and agonized insults at the snowbank as he very slowly pulsed the gas pedal, rocking carefully back onto the road. When he was out, he stopped, his car blocking the lane as he sat indecisively staring at his reddened, stinging hands. He swore again, turned, and continued driving — very carefully — down towards the village. 

\----

The windows of  _ Lavellan’s Crafts _ were dark, because of course they were — it was going on nine 'o'clock at night on Satinalia — and Dorian sat in his car in the tiny, empty parking lot on the street, staring bitterly out at them, wondering what he had expected. When he got out and walked stupidly up to the shop and around the side of the building, he found that  _ all  _ the windows set into it were dark. Because, again, of course they were; it was Satinalia, and Taren Lavellan had a family somewhere in this whimsical little village that loved him. He was probably sitting in front of a fireplace in one of those happy, warm looking little cabins with golden candlelight in the windows and hot cider in his mug and a collection of aunties and uncles and grandparents and children all singing holiday carols and exchanging homemade gifts around him. 

Dorian stomped on down the road, his feet wet with the snow that had soaked through and probably ruined his shoes, his face stinging with the cold wind that tore thin tears from his eyes — well, no. He had no one to impress. It was Satinalia, and he was alone, and cold, and crying. 

He wound up at the tree, still brightly lit and sparkling in the town square, and he very much wanted to kick it. He didn't, because it was huge and spiked and would just stab him with needles if he tried, so he kicked at the snow around it instead, now entirely unable to feel his feet, nevermind agitating his stubbed toe, and then sat down heavily on a bench. The same bench that he'd found Taren sitting on, waiting for him, just the night before.

The whole beautiful festival seemed to have happened ages ago now, even though the ice sculptures still decorated the sidewalks and the little food stands sat boarded up for the evening around him. He stared up at the dazzling lights glowing through the spiked branches of the great pine tree, and felt sharp and bitter to match it. What was he doing? What had he been thinking, last night, coming out here to take in some frivolous, charming entertainment? It had been a mistake. A great, stupid, amateur mistake. He didn't belong here, and he needed to stop wanting to. He needed to get back in his car and drive back up the mountain and stick to what he was good at. Which was being sharp-tongued and quick-witted and  _ alone _ . And maybe drunk. He patted at his coat, pulling out his shining flask and tipping it into his mouth only to find it nearly empty. He needed to go back up the mountain and drink himself into a proper Satinalia stupor. He bent his head into his numb, red, cracked and possibly bleeding hands to shake out one last quietly self-pitying cry, shaking enough with the cold that it was hard to tell where shivering ended and frustration began. 

"Hey!" — Dorian looked up to see a tall elf waving at him from across the square. He mastered his snivelling and tried to smooth down his hair. The elf crossed the square towards him, and he recognized the bright hair and simple tattoos of Taren's friend — or cousin or uncle or whatever — from the lodge. "Dorian, right?" 

Dorian had already forgotten the elf's name, so he simply nodded grimly and attempted to look like he wasn't bitterly crying alone on a bench in the cold. The elf just sort of stared down at him with a curious glint in his eyes.

"Were you...were you looking for Taren?" 

"I was…" — he stuttered, voice hoarse and teeth chattering — "I was just leaving." 

"Oh. Well, he's at the community centre," of fucking  _ course _ he is, "there's a holiday potluck. It's not far…" the elf continued to look him over, curiosity and blatant pity on his face, "actually, I have to carry some stuff over, if you wanted to help me and, you know, warm up a bit." He suggested, holding up one of two heavy looking cloth bags filled with boxes of paper plates and large bottles of soda. 

An absolutely terrible idea, but Dorian nodded slowly and stood up, taking the heavier looking of the two bags. The elf then turned with a pleased expression and set off with long, loping strides down the road. 

\----

When Dorian tried to picture what was conveyed by the words “community centre”, what he arrived at resembled a large school gymnasium; some kind of generic, empty room with laminate floors and fluorescent overhead lights. Shabby furniture, maybe a basketball hoop. That wasn’t at all what he found.

The community centre building was long, all one floor and built of wood with a low roof and a tall chimney, sticking out against a wide hill of snow bearing the signs of children at play — sled marks and drooping snowmen all across it. In front of the building lay a large gated area holding back a sprawling playground of slides and climbing structures and even a small skating rink. Inside, the wood panelled walls were adorned with amateur artwork and framed photographs, display cases filled with trophies and clipped newspaper articles, and too many homemade holiday decorations. Beyond a front desk and a bit of warmly lit hall, his guide opened a door into the wide gymnasium he had expected. It was not lined in slippery laminate flooring or lit in glaring white, but continued on with the shining hardwood of the lobby. Overhead the ceiling was decorated in hanging paper snowflakes, while strings of lights and bright candles cast a soft glow over the long tables set out across it. 

“Hey, Keeps!” called the elf ahead of him, shouting across the sea of cheery, chattering people — old, young, elvhen and otherwise — who were mingling about, laughing at their tables and piling food onto their plates from the long line of dishes set out at one end of the wide hall. At a table in the far corner, an elf with haphazard curls of red hair and glowing, tattooed skin turned around. 

Well, there he was — Dorian's breath faltered in his lungs — Taren. 

“Look who I dragged in from the cold!” 

The murmuring of conversation around him quieted slightly for a moment, and then built itself happily back up, apparently thinking nothing of him. But as Taren turned to look back at the call of what was apparently his nickname, still laughing a laugh that Dorian could probably pick out of a sea of  _ thousands _ , he stopped, and regarded Dorian in stunned silence. 

Shit.  _ Shit.  _

Taren rose from his table and walked over; cautious, curious pace increasing as he got closer and was able to make out the absolute dishevelment of Dorian's appearance — shoes wet from the snow and hair soaked through, dirt and blood on his hands and redness in his eyes — until he arrived in front of him. Taren stopped, reaching out with a firm but careful grip to steady Dorian’s drooping shoulders. 

"Hey, whoa," his brows scrunched together, confusion and worry and something else that was far too bright in his eyes, "Dorian, are you okay?" 

Dorian was taller, and he almost never slouched, but right now he was so hunched over with embarrassment and lingering cold that he shrank under Taren’s hold, looking up at him and his bright yet uneasy eyes. And he began, helplessly, to laugh. 

“You,” he struggled through the sentence, straightening a little, resisting the urge to simply fall into him, “you have antlers,” he snorted, Taren’s mouth moved from a worried frown to a confused half-smile, “on your head.”   
  
He did. Taren was dressed head-to-toe in the most ridiculous — absurdly ridiculous — _adorably_ ridiculous — festive getup imaginable. No; worse than anything Dorian could have ever imagined. His sweater, which looked handmade and as though it had seen _many_ a Satinalia, was bright blue and decorated with snowflakes that were embroidered into it with shining silver thread, zigzagging white and blue patterned stripes, and a collection of little green trees around the collar and wrists. He also wasn’t wearing shoes, but large, fuzzy, bright blue slippers with white fluffy pom poms tufting the tips of the toes, and on his head, pushing the messy curls and waves of his thick hair away from his beautifully tattooed face, was a headband; a headband with antlers. They looked to be made of felt and pipe cleaner and sparkly pom poms, spiralling about in some approximation of the patterns carved into the antlers of halla, and hanging off of each one were little bows and — were those _bells_? 

Taren reached a hand up to his head, touching the antlers as though he was surprised to find them there, and as he did, the springy felt-and-pipe cleaner accessory bounced, and the bells jingled. Taren grinned. “They were a gift,” he said, and his fingers hooked underneath the strap of the headband to begin pulling them off. 

Dorian shot a hand up to his head, catching Taren’s wrist and halting his removal of the absurd thing while still stifling his laughter. “Don’t.” he wheezed, “don’t you dare. They’re magnificent.” 

Taren lowered his hand, taking Dorian’s with it, and the bells on his head jingled again. “You want some food?” he asked, moving his free hand down Dorian's arm while he kept Dorian's in his other, still bracing him like he might fall. 

Dorian let go, remembering himself, and took a sudden step back. "I" — what, again, had he  _ expected _ ? — "I didn't bring anything, I just" — behind Taren, sitting out next to a tray of sugar cookies shaped like snowflakes and what looked to be a heavily vandalized gingerbread house, on one end of a long table laden with home cooked meals and large steel vats of hot cider, was an assortment of expensive, gold foil wrapped chocolates in a beautifully carved wooden bowl. He looked back at Taren. 

"I…" Taren followed his gaze, and blushed. "I don't really like sweets." There was a slight inflection to the statement, like it was a question, more than an excuse. 

"I" — Dorian glanced away from Taren again, this time looking at the crowd, all comfortable and happy and paying both of them almost no mind. Then he looked back at Taren, still smiling at him in that goofy, lopsided way, while antlers made of fairy dust and stupid, ridiculous holiday magic drooped over his halo of hair. "I hate you." he said. 

"Uh huh," said Taren, patting his arm once, and leaving his hand there for one infinite moment while bells jingled (on his head!) and children laughed and magic was real, "I'll get you a plate." 


	6. Satinalia Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian meets the family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised I have not been cw'ing all the alcohol in this fic, but it's Dorian so I feel that should be a given. Anyway, there isn't actually any alcohol here but this chapter has some smoking (""elfroot"") in it.

Taren had been at the community centre since eleven in the morning. He’d helped carry heavy urns of coffee and hot water for tea in and out of the gathering hall from the kitchen, and pestered the grannies making pancakes for more ways to help until they shooed him out with wooden spoons. Then he’d helped to set up a craft table, and stacked up piles of storybooks, and ran around after six-year-olds who finished their food before their parents could take a sip of coffee, giving the other adults a break. He’d read stories and helped build snowmen and cut out at least a dozen paper snowflakes. A sweet little girl made him a headband which he wore with pride, and people kept handing him cards and cookie tins and new pairs of socks. In return, he gave away carved ornaments and small paintings and indulged so many pleas for piggy back rides (because he was a halla, now) that his back began to ache. By afternoon he had read Satinalia Sam and the Holiday Lamb so many times he had it memorized, and had built up a cast of character voices for the slightly more complex story of Eight Dalish Delights that left the little ones screeching with laughter. All in all, he had been keeping very busy. So by the time dinner rolled around and Sera, Dagna and a few more Friends arrived, he had almost — not quite, but almost — forgotten about the lurching pit of disappointment in his gut. 

He wasn’t an amazing cook, but he dutifully put out a contribution of soup and, as an afterthought, the damned chocolates from Dorian, and decided to just suck it up and be done with it. No moping or pining or wondering what-if, just a night of good friends and good cheer and soon, a new year. He’d move on, and probably never see the man again, and it would be fine. At around seven in the evening, he finally sat down. There was plenty to talk about at the table besides himself or his love life, and it seemed like he’d be able to get through the whole evening without any aunties pestering him about that boy from the festival. Sera and Dagna mostly wanted to finalize their plans for the next evening, sorting out signs and speeches and how many people he could fit in his van, and it felt good to talk about things that were more important than his bleeding heart. But he should have known that Sera, of all people, wouldn’t let him get through the evening without some lampooning. 

“Hey, you invite your new lover-man tonight?” she nudged him with her elbow, and then stole a cookie off his plate. “Probably not glitzy enough for him though, I’d bet.” she went on, talking through a mouthful of cookie crumbs, Taren frowned. 

“No,” he said, trying and failing not to give away how he really felt, “probably not.” 

“Can’t keep ‘em all.” she said with an understanding shrug, though she seemed a little too happy about it. 

“Kept you.” he countered, and Sera nudged him again. 

“ _‘Scuse you_ ,” Dagna interrupted correctingly, “I kept this one.” 

“Yep, all yours.” Sera swallowed her cookie — his cookie — and reached across the table to pat Dagna’s hand, “actually, I heard he told Big Woody where to stuff it, so Rich Bitch might not be all bad.”

“Wait,” Taren stopped picking at his deserts, watching Sera, “what? Seriously?” 

“Yeah,” Dagna cut in again, “apparently they more or less demanded a meeting with his company, but got told off. A Jenny in food services heard the whole thing, said Tall Dark and Fancy told them where to go and stormed out. ‘Bout four days ago.” 

“You’re kidding.” 

Dagna shook her head, “he didn’t mention it?” 

“We didn’t talk about his work much.” Taren admitted, a familiar, yearning lurch in his stomach as he worked out the timing. Why _hadn’t_ he mentioned it?

“I bet you didn’t,” Sera waggled her eyebrows and targeted Taren with a mocking couple of thrusts from her seat. He blushed, shook his head, and threw a piece of gingerbread house at her. 

“Oh!” Dagna exclaimed, “that reminds me, can you get me his email?” — 

— “ _that_ reminds you?” Sera sniggered at her endearingly, “weirdie." 

“I want to ask him about those articles!” — 

— “wait, good idea. Get him to give us _daddy’s_ personal email too, and we could send _so many rude pictures_.” Sera jumped into the middle of Dagna’s inspiration, both of them happily bouncing off one another and sparks practically flying between them as schemes began to form. 

They were a sight almost impossible not to laugh at, Sera grinning mischievously, Dagna instantly brightening with wide eyes, already imagining ways to maximize the chaos of Sera’s prank. Both completing one another's sentences with more and more outrageous ideas. 

“I’m not going to rope him into helping you play pranks on his own father,” Taren shook his head, quickly trying to tamp their collective energy down, “besides, it doesn’t matter, he —” 

— “Hey, Keeps!” 

He was… probably never going to see him again.

“Speak of the Dread Wolf,” Sera nudged him once again, smirking. 

“Look who I dragged in from the cold!” 

\----

He was a mess. Taren didn’t know he was capable of looking a mess, and he was looking at _him_ like Satinalia Sam’s lost lamb, soaking wet and sad and... scared? Guilty. Taren's eyes stopped on his hands as he looked him over; bare and chapped, red as lobsters, blood on his knuckles. He took one of them in his, and pulled him out of the hall. 

Around a corner outside the gathering hall were the bathrooms, and Taren pulled Dorian along without a word until he pointed him at one, and finally asked, “what happened?” while Dorian opened the door and began to wash his hands at the sink. Thin pink trails ran down the drain, and Dorian frowned up at his own reflection, not answering, so Taren said, “Dorian?” 

“Would you believe I fended off a pack of vicious wolves?” The attempt at a charming smirk on Dorian’s face was hindered by the swollen redness of his eyes. Taren shook his head. “How about a bear?” Taren crossed his arms, and Dorian turned off the tap with a sigh. “Fight with a snowbank. I’m fine, really.” 

Taren pressed him with a look, but Dorian didn’t seem to want to budge. So he uncrossed his arms, and turned to lead Dorian back out into the hall. 

Dorian followed slowly, looking over the walls and commenting here and there. He seemed reluctant to join the crowd, lagging behind and making a point to stop and observe every framed photograph and painting. As they walked, he tried to chat — nervousness in the way he spoke. Another thing Taren hadn’t thought him capable of. They walked by a wall covered in framed pictures from special events and ceremonies over the years, and he paused to point one out. Then another.

“Is that you?” 

Taren looked back at him, glancing at the picture — a summer camp group from several years ago, when he’d been a counsellor. He'd had shorter hair and fewer tattoos, but he stood out in the photo, grinning his signature grin out from the centre of a group of young Dalish elves standing in front of a large tent. He nodded, and Dorian chuckled to himself. They kept walking, and Dorian stopped to glance between Taren and one of the display cases, shaking his head. 

“This one’s full of you,” 

Taren shrugged. The case had trophies in it from decades-old art competitions and photographs of himself and various other members of the artists’ collective accepting them, as well as more photos from camping trips and dance recitals and clipped articles from festivals over the years. He knew that he was smiling out of most of them. “It’s a bit much.”

“I’ll say. My, but you do participate in a lot of extracurriculars,” some more of Dorian’s usual teasing demeanour was back, which was probably a good sign, but Taren wasn’t sure he was in the mood. He kept walking, but he was also in more pictures. 

“Honestly, how much time do you spend here?” 

They passed the last display case, and then the memorial wall before the door to the gathering hall. Dorian was still lightly teasing him, still slowing himself down under the guise of looking at things, and he scanned the sprawling metal tree, reading its leaves of silver plaques as he finished speaking, his voice growing softer, until he was only speaking to himself.

“Why do you spend so much time at the…” 

Both of Taren’s parents' names were in that tree, engraved into simple silver leaves decorating the third branch down from the top on its left side. They’d died when Taren was seven, and he knew Dorian was good enough at math to have figured that out by the time his head turned to face him again. But by the time it did, Taren made sure to already be inside, halfway across the hall, finding Dorian a plate. 

Several minutes later, Dorian found him by the apple cider. His eyes were a bit less red, his posture a little straighter. His clothes were still wet and he still looked tired, but he took the plate from Taren with a smile, scanning up to the top of his head again, where those halla antlers still were, and shook his head with a chuckle. 

“You grew up here,” was the only comment he made. Understanding more than pitying, thankfully. 

“Yeah. Lavellan Valley, Lavellan’s Crafts, Clan Lavellan… it’s in the name.” 

“Here, _in this building,_ here.” Dorian clarified, and Taren shrugged, because he knew what he meant. 

“Yeah.” he answered again, with even less enthusiasm, which Dorian seemed to catch, because the next thing he did was joke:

“There is a cabinet back there full of pictures of you as a child that are so adorable I might vomit,” he threatened, raising an eyebrow and offering up a tired smirk. 

Taren let out a quick snort of air, almost a laugh. It was nice that he was trying. He still wasn’t sure he was in the mood. “That’s me,” he returned with as much humour as he felt capable of. 

“You’re very accomplished, it turns out,” this line was more complimentary, and it was also an opening. 

“Not like you, telling logging executives where to get off?” 

Dorian blinked. “Another story about me?” Taren squinted at him, trying to make out exactly what was going on in his head, “how did you even hear about that?” 

“Nosy friends,” Taren shrugged, turning to return to his table. Dorian caught up with him, walking beside him while carefully balancing his plate, which Taren had piled high with a little bit of everything. 

“I didn’t even realise at first, much more glad of it now,” Dorian said, “you should have seen their proposal, shooting it down might have been the highlight of my career.” 

Taren nodded, watching Dorian carefully. His bitterness about it was clear, and comforting. “So you’re trying to stem the tide of capitalist evil all by yourself?” 

“Well, not always by myself, but usually, unfortunately.” Dorian answered with exaggerated pride over the remark, and tried again to smirk at him, but the look was tired. 

“Stop trying to impress me.” Taren smirked too, but there was very little charm in his rebuttal. 

Dorian sat somewhat stiffly down beside him when they arrived at the table, and Taren did his best to ignore the few curious glances that fell their way. He also ignored Sera and Dagna, who took the opportunity to dig into Dorian much more readily than he had. 

Dagna asked point blank for his email, and Sera wanted to hear everything about this meeting he'd stormed out of. Dorian shrugged awkwardly and said “it’s nothing special, I storm out of a lot of meetings,” but when pressed for details as to why he managed to say something about not being able to abide the environmental concerns, and capped it with a bitter remark of, “one of many things that my father and I disagree on, I’d like to note.” 

“Then why work for him?” Dagna asked with her usual complete lack of tact, and Dorian grimaced. 

“Aren’t you inquisitive,” he muttered, “not much choice in who your family is, it seems.” 

In response, Taren couldn’t stop himself from muttering, “not in my experience,” under his breath. Dorian shot him one of those strangely guilty looks. This time though, he knew exactly why. 

They kept picking on him, and Dorian continued to squirm, and even though Taren, admittedly, very much wanted to know what the hell was going on, he also couldn’t stop watching Dorian’s still-red, shaking hands. Skin cracked from cold, knuckles flecked with little pink spots of torn skin.

“So what did Big Woody want to offer?” Sera pressed on, eyeing him closely. 

“I’m fairly certain answering that question could get me thrown in prison for insider trading,” Dorian sighed impatiently in reply, stabbing at his food with a determined jab of his fork. 

Sera opened her mouth to pester him some more, and Taren finally stepped in. 

“I’m going to get some air,” he pushed out his chair and stood, throwing an inviting glance Dorian’s way and then a more pointed one at Sera. Both seemed to get the message, and Dorian rose with a thankful “I’ll join you,” while Sera stuck out her tongue. 

His coat and boots were stored in a coat room just off the entrance, and Dorian followed him sheepishly as he jingled out of the hall and then replaced his bouncing antlers with a warm hat. He passed Dorian his mittens, and didn't let him hand them back. They stepped outside, and Taren walked a ways around the building to the side nearest the kitchen, where a little alcove with steps up to the side entrance sat under the glow of a single light fixture, sheltered from the cold wind. He reached into an inner pocket of his coat, and pulled out a small wooden pipe. 

Dorian watched him, face lined with curiosity and frayed nerves. 

“You smoke?” 

Taren shrugged, poking a little at the blend of elfroot already packed into the bowl. “Sometimes. It’s legal here,” and an old Dalish tradition, and also just a very good remedy for stressful days — which this most happy of holidays had somehow become. He lit the pipe and took a long inhale, blowing the smoke out away from them into the air and watching as it was quickly flung away by a strong wind. He offered the pipe to Dorian, who shook his head. 

“I still have to drive.” He pushed the words out like lead weights, so heavy in the air that Taren could see him slouching again under them. He frowned, and took another drag from the pipe. 

“So, dinner with your father?” Taren leaned back against the wall, cocking an eyebrow as Dorian sighed into place beside him. 

“Was cut short.” he answered, looking out at the dark field of snow, grey in the night before them, lumps of droopy snowmen and high snowbanks left by the plows glowing a little with yellow-orange light under the streetlights at its edge, “lots of shouting, quite dramatic. You’ll hear about it in a day or so, I’m sure.” 

He crossed his arms, looking both cold and bitter, and Taren frowned again. He reached out a hand and left it on Dorian’s arm, inching a little closer. 

“You want to just… tell me about it now?” 

Dorian sighed again, this time glancing sidelong over at Taren’s face. A very small smile crept up over his lips, but he shook his head. “You know, I really don’t.” Taren watched him slump further into the wall — and closer to him, leaning a little more into the hand at his bicep. “I have to go back, so it’s best I just keep that bottle sealed.” 

Taren felt his heart quickening, and sinking, and he pulled Dorian in closer, taking another drag before wrapping his arm fully over Dorian’s still slouching shoulders. 

“I’d let you stay over,” he offered, honestly. Inwardly, a very quiet voice of reason reminded him that doing so had not yet ended well. But he would. He’d let him stay. “You sure you want to go?” 

“And miss the coming lecture on how I ruined the holiday?” Dorian forced out a breath that somewhat resembled a laugh, “perish the thought.” There was an aching pause, the silence so tense it was almost groaning, “but I have to. Family obligations and all that.” 

Taren nodded like he understood, even though he didn’t. Not at all. He took another puff from his pipe, finishing it, and then slipped it back into his pocket. 

“I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.” Taren admitted, and as he did Dorian straightened, and pulled himself out from under his arm, frowning apologetically. 

“I didn’t —” Dorian looked very pointedly away, “I didn’t plan for you to. Least of all like this…” 

He could have shaken him. Grabbed both of his shoulders and shaken his answers right out of him, if he’d thought it would work. Instead, Taren took one shoulder in his hand and turned Dorian gently towards him, looking hard into those tired eyes, and trying to fill them somehow with something else, something genuine and safe. “I’m glad you came.” 

“ _Why?_ ” 

The desperation, the absolute uncertainty, and the _fear_ in that question. Voice as raw as his scraped up hands, eyes as needy as Taren felt, his throat seeming to close up before he could finish the word — choking on it, staring at him, like he really didn’t know. He couldn’t help himself. Taren’s hands gripped tight into both of Dorian’s shoulders before he could think, pulling him into a kiss so deep and so warm and so right that he’d have to understand, have to finally fucking _get it_. 

“You know why.” 

Dorian kissed him back, bent his head into Taren’s and stayed there for several more longing breaths, and then with a shudder he stepped back again, and returned to looking away. Taren thought he heard him curse under his breath, but if he did it was lost in the wind. 

“So now what?” Taren asked, plain as could be. 

“You’re very direct, has anyone ever told you?” 

“I know what I want.” 

Dorian looked like he was about to choke again, but he leaned back against the wall with another sigh, and reached an arm out, taking Taren’s hand in a light, careful grip. 

“You should…” he shook his head, seemingly to himself, “you should call me. And I you, and so on.” 

Taren moved his thumb over Dorian’s hand, stroking the soft, fine fur of the mitten and pressing gently over the knuckles underneath, looking at it rather than at all that indecisive uncertainty on Dorian’s face. Maybe he _was_ too direct, maybe Dorian had good reason to keep backing away. “I’m not asking you to” — 

Dorian’s hand closed over his, a sure grip. “I’m not saying it’s a good idea, but…” Taren really wished he would finish one of those sentences, one day, “well I still have a few more nights here.” 

“Hm,” Taren pulled at his hand, and he came towards him easily, leaning into him and then turning his face, hands still held as their lips met and his posture relaxed into the embrace again. “You do still have my mug.” 

Dorian smiled at that, a little more uncertainty melting from his expression with each kiss. 

“Night after tomorrow?” Taren suggested, going for casual and inviting and patiently hopeful, accomplishing nothing but eager. “I can show you around some more.” 

Dorian nodded, accepting the offer as he stowed away some more of his unhappy caution behind one of those deliberately charming smiles that still looked too tired. “Certainly. How else would I return your precious mug?” 

They returned to the hall, and both Sera and Dagna seemed to have moved on from their interest in Dorian and his work, now engaged in vivid competition in a gambling game with spinning tops — played for portions of gingerbread house and gold foiled chocolates — with a few of their other friends at the table. A good portion of the crowd had left, and those that remained were mostly the same people who had helped to set up; a handful of his friends, an assortment of older aunties, and a few teens taking their fill from the desert table with glee. Dorian sat down with less stiffness than before, and finished his heaping plate of food hungrily. Dagna soon folded out of the game, and then pulled Dorian into a fast-paced conversation about something sciency that Taren couldn’t follow. But he looked happy; really interested and smiling with his whole face. 

After a while, Taren began clearing plates and gathering up trash to take to the large garbage cans by the doors to the kitchen, and as he did, a tall elderly Dalish woman bustled out of them, her long grey hair tied up in an elaborate braided style and decorated with halla horns not dissimilar from his own (which, since he had taken them off, had apparently found their way to Sera, who had since invented a game of getting them onto unsuspecting heads. Currently, she was hovering near Dorian, sizing him up.) 

“Da’len, why are you helping?” Auntie Dee targeted him with crossed arms and an accusatory look, speaking in quick, sharp Elvhen, “you’ve been here all day. Sit down. Go rescue the boy from your dwarf friend before she conducts experiments on him.” 

Taren shrugged, “I think he actually likes Dagna’s company…” He stacked a few empty cider cups that were sitting out on the nearest table, and tossed them into the trash. Auntie Dee turned her gaze to Dorian and Dagna, who were still gesticulating together wildly, and made a thoughtful sounding grunt. 

“So, this boy,” she began, turning back to him without softening at all, “you like him?” 

“Auntie...” Taren took up another empty cup and began stuffing it with used napkins, searching for more trash.

“What?” Auntie Dee’s arms were still crossed, and she blocked his access to the trash can with her body. “I can’t ask about the man you bring to Satinalia dinner?” 

Taren sighed, “yes, I like him.” he replied, his Elvhen just as quick and just as sharp. 

“Where is he from?”

“Tevinter.”

“Da’len,”

“What?”

“Well, what does he do?” She raised an eyebrow, letting Taren know that he wasn’t getting out of the conversation any time soon. 

“Work.” 

“‘Work’, he says,” Auntie Dee shook her head, “what kind of work? Good work? Hard work? Doesn’t look like he’s worked a day in his life.”

“Auntie,” Taren groaned in Dorian's defence. 

“Fine, what do I know. He’s nice to you?” Now, she softened a little, but the eyebrow and crossed arms remained. 

“Do I like boys who aren’t?”

“You don’t want me to answer that, da’len.” 

Taren sighed again, “yes he’s nice to me. But he’s not… I mean, it’s not serious.”

“Why not? What’s wrong with him?” she pointed her eyebrow-risen, interrogative gaze at Dorian again. 

“Auntie!” 

“What? He looks like he got in a fight.”

“He didn’t.”

“He tell you that?”

Taren shook his head, and set the trash he was still trying to gather up down again. “I’m going to go.”

“Wait, wait, da’len,” she brought her eyes back to him, lowered the eyebrow, uncrossed her arms. “Fine, you say he’s a nice boy. He is polite at least. You tell him to get boots.” 

“He has boots.”

“Then why doesn’t he wear them?”

“I don’t know,” Taren crossed his own arms, “ask him.”

“Ask him,” Auntie Dee echoed in exasperated disbelief, shaking her head again, “I’m going to give him some socks.” 

“What, now?”

“Yes. I made extra. And a coat, you think the brown one will fit him?” Auntie Dee had a collection of donated winter clothes hanging in the coat room, and ‘the brown one’, Taren knew, meant a floor-length, fur-lined, old brown parka. It more resembled a sleeping bag than a coat, and was too hot for anything over forty below. 

“He doesn’t want the brown one.”

“How do you know? He looks cold. Doesn’t even have boots — he should have a coat.” 

Taren then attempted a desperate chase after Auntie Dee to the coatroom, shouting after her in quicker, sharper elvhen as she found the old parka, which was hideous even by Taren’s standards, and dug a pair of thick-knitted blue and green striped socks from her own bag. They returned to the hall still bantering back and forth, Taren mostly just complaining “Auntie, leave him be,” while she ignored him and bustled on towards Dorian. 

He looked quite a lot like a halla in headlights, especially considering that Sera had managed to sneak the bright headband of bouncing antlers onto his head while the commotion of Auntie Dee and Taren entering — Taren still pleading with her in frantic Elvhen — distracted him. Auntie Dee bounded up to him, scanning him and holding up the coat to compare its size to his with a grin. 

Taren felt his cheeks burning, and shot Dorian a glance with tense eyebrows and a quick grimace, mouthing “sorry” silently beside her. 

“Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan,” she introduced herself with a slight bow, her accent like Taren’s, but thicker and heavier, slowing her words in the common speech way down, and breaking them up in odd places, “but everyone calls me Auntie Dee.” Then she jumped into a scolding lecture about dressing properly for the weather, reminding him that it gets cold in the mountains, and explaining to him that the coat and socks were both very warm, so he should take them, or he might get sick. 

Dorian was much better at responding to sudden introductions and forced-upon gifts than Taren would have been, introducing himself politely and returning the slight bow with just the right amount of grace. He thanked her for the socks and even tried on the coat, all while Taren stood back, silently praying that the floor would open and swallow him up. Dorian complimented the food, and offered to help clean up, too, and Deshanna left beaming at Taren and saying, “okay, seems like a nice enough boy. See, he likes the coat!” in Elvhen, before returning to the kitchen. As soon as she was gone, Taren grabbed Dorian by the arm, and pulled him quickly outside again. Mostly because he needed a blast of cold air to hit him in the face, and also because he wasn’t about to actually let Dorian help clean up. 

“You don’t have to keep that,” he looked at the coat - still hanging off of Dorian, swathing him in heavy brown fur and dragging a little on the ground, and Dorian pulled it tight around himself defensively. 

“Are you kidding?” he grinned, “I haven’t been warm since I got here. I’m going to live in this thing.” 

Taren laughed, Dorian looked absolutely ridiculous, like he was halfway through building a werewolf costume. It just needed paws. “I’m so sorry about that,” he continued, burying his face in his hands while he shook his head, “if you’re going, you’d better run before she comes back with jars of sauce and takes you up on that offer to stack chairs…” 

“I can stack chairs.” 

Taren shook his head again, lifted the silly antlers from Dorian’s head (to his wide-eyed surprise, and more chuckles) and put them back on his own. “You’re really okay?” He asked, with one last tug of his shoulders into him, planting a kiss on his lips and holding him in a hug that lingered; the shoulder of Dorian’s new coat was certainly soft.

“I am now.” Dorian replied, mostly smooth, but with feeling. Taren smiled. “Thank you, for saving my evening.” Dorian’s eyes were on his face, still a little sad and guilt-ridden, but undeniably grateful. “You have no idea what this has meant.” 

Maybe someday, Taren thought, he’d actually tell him.

Taren returned to the hall, feeling… good enough. Confused, maybe, and a little worried, but more sure of himself than he had been; hopeful. A bad idea, Dorian kept calling it, but as he mused about whether it would be fun, funny, or just too much to take Dorian skating out on the lake in the valley, it didn’t really feel like one.

"Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs

Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes" 

Taren jumped at the soft, cryptic words that suddenly sounded out close behind him. He turned to find one of the straggling young volunteers peering wide-eyed and knowingly at him from under a flopping, pom pom tufted hat and pale blond hair. Taren had known quite a few odd kids, over the years; watched many grow into awkward teens and interesting young people. Cole however, was something else.

“I know that’s from a play, Cole.” Taren sighed, once he’d composed himself. “And a poor choice of one, at that.”

“His father is investing in that company.” Cole stated, “reopening the meeting, less angry, ‘deal with me personally’, he promised.” 

Taren blinked at him, “how could you —”

“I heard it from a bird.” 

“A little birdie told me,”

“Yes?” 

“That’s the expression, it’s — never mind.” Taren sighed. Cole knew as many people at the lodge as he did, probably more, and news always seemed to reach him first. Even before Sera. And by now, Taren spoke Cole.

Cole just kept peering at him. “Stars don’t actually cross, do they?” 

Taren was still working on processing this new information, so he just shook his head, continued on his way back inside, and wondered with sudden doubtful anger, just how many reasons Dorian had for continuing to call it a bad idea.


	7. Violent Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian has something to prove, Taren doesn't have time for this shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Some violence as the conflict of this story heats up.

When Dorian arrived at Taren's shop, rushing with flushed annoyance because he had himself only just found out the details of what his father had done, Taren was already angry. He also wasn't alone. It was near evening, a sombre sky closing over a still, grey day, but the shop was full. And near the front of the crowd, his jeans spackled with dry paint and an array of carved wooden beads braided into sections of his hair — pulling it back, revealing the full breadth of tattoos that spread from over his scalp onto his right temple — was Taren. His eyes narrowed when he saw him, and he met Dorian outside with crossed arms and a demanding look.

"Did you know?"

Dorian stopped, taking in the set of Taren's jaw and the hardness of his eyes. The eyes narrowed a little more when Dorian didn't immediately answer, and he went on.

"You're giving those vultures the funding they need to expand, to pay off their stumping fees. And you receive a healthy cut of the profits, discounted timber for your building companies and fucking textile sweatshops in Tevinter in return. It's _literally_ imperialist. And you didn't _tell me._ "

He said ‘ _you’_ , meaning the company, but he looked at Dorian like he meant it personally. "That has nothing to do with me" — Dorian stammered in surprise, "how — how the hell do you _know_ that already?"

"That really isn't important."

"I thought it was dealt with —" Dorian began, faltering as he tried to reestablish his footing "I — I was trying to stop it, and I had no idea he would move so quickly, it goes against everything that —"

" — But you knew." He was still glaring. _Glaring_. And the rumble of anger through that musical voice — Dorian's breath shook.

"I'm on your side," Dorian raised his own voice a little, shock at the sudden need to defend himself, even a little annoyance at having any of this pointed at _him_ , when he was just as frustrated with it all as Taren looked. “I told you, I can’t abide the environmental damage any more than” — 

Taren cut him off again, eyes flashing, still in a narrow squint — “my _side_ ? You knew there was more, that it wasn’t _‘dealt with_ ’, and you didn’t say anything. My people, Dorian. My _home_ , you didn’t think I’d care to know? If you really cared —”

“I care!” Dorian interrupted in a sudden burst of quick speech and even louder self defence. “About the deal, the land, the fucking _planet_ , and the people on it,” he stressed that last part, pleading for some distance to be granted between his unrelenting bigot of a father and his own high standards of decency, “it doesn’t earn me many friends, but I care about it, and I fight for it — as much as I can. Don't tell me I don't care." He felt his own eyes focusing into a glare, whether he meant to strike one or not, "I spend all my time fighting for better policy, and against our investing in anything remotely resembling a _sweatshop._ ” He noted with even more bitter emphasis. It was too much, after the day he’d had, to be talked to as if he didn’t know the sorts of pots Halward Pavus had his greedy fingers in, “I _try_ to use who I am for good.” 

Taren quieted with his speech, shock and defensiveness on his own face as Dorian grew louder. His arms were still crossed, and he was still glaring, but there was a slight softening to the look — brows bent now more in confusion than pure anger. 

“Then I don’t understand,” he said in an accusatory snap, “if you care so much why wouldn’t you tell me? Hell, why didn’t you say something when we saw it on the hill — if I hadn’t asked you last night, would you have even told me anything?”

“I was coming to tell you _now_ ,” Dorian said. 

He had spent his day in further arguments, not just with his father, but with everyone he could hope to persuade, to no avail. Halward Pavus had been ready with a lecture for him when he returned the previous night; Dorian had arrived at the midnight prayer service he’d been obligated to attend at the lodge’s little Chantry in just the nick of time, reluctantly ready to attempt some fashioning of a peace with his father, if only for the sake of being able to continue fighting him in boardrooms. It was then that Halward had smiled menacingly while explaining to Dorian that he would be handling the review of policy with the logging group himself. By late afternoon the next day, the new deal had been finalized, and there had been nothing Dorian could do about it. 

“I’ve been fighting this thing from the beginning.” He stressed his disapproval over the whole ordeal again, but this was apparently the wrong answer, because Taren’s brows furrowed in anger once more. 

“Then why keep it all private?” 

It was not supposed to have become about him. The nagging thoughts that kept invading his mind while he worked, looking out at the hills and trees, wondering what Taren would think about it all; he had been trying to keep all of that in check, to remind himself that Taren’s opinion of him couldn’t mean what it was starting to mean, and to keep himself squarely in his own domain. Then the argument in the restaurant had sent him skidding — quite literally — into deeper feeling than he knew how to handle, and now… now he was here, because he cared. And all it had gotten him was another angry lecture. His own brows twitched, he threw his hands up, and he answered. 

“This is a fantasy land, Taren!” — exasperated, unthinking, he just answered — “This life you have, I don’t get to take this with me! It’s a fucking vacation and I,” from the look that was spreading across Taren’s face, he knew he’d already dug himself a hole, but he finished the admittance, wincing at the truth as he said it, “I was trying not to care about _you_.” 

Taren flinched like the words had reached through the air and slapped him, and his gaze narrowed to a point again. 

Dorian stuttered, his speech softening. “Except now I do, alright? And I’m not any good at it whatsoever,” he really, really wished that he hadn’t just said all that, and he attempted, feebly, to walk it back with some humour: “which is distressing, because I’m generally very good at everything I do.” He sighed, “as soon as I knew it was going through after all, I came here to tell you.” 

Taren shook his head, muttering something under his breath that sounded very much like “ _I don’t fucking believe you._ ”, and Dorian wondered how much of it was an expression of confused distress, and how much of it was true. “I have a vigil to drive people to.” He said more directly, and then he simply turned to go back inside; not one mote of forgiveness on his unreasonably lovely face. 

Dorian understood at once what was going on, but if he hadn’t, the arrival of Sera and Dagna, hopping down the street towards them equipped with a megaphone and two large plywood signs painted with angry red slogans and rude illustrations of cartoonish lumberjacks pierced with arrows would have explained it for him. He followed Taren into the shop. 

“I’m coming.” he insisted.

“What?” Taren turned to look at him with continued ferocity blazing in his eyes.

“To your protest, I’m coming.” 

“I don’t have room,” Taren shot back, moving through the crowd towards the back counter, and taking up a sign of his own from the pile that lay on it. 

“I have a car, I’ll follow.” Dorian pushed past the crowd to keep up with him, ignoring the heads that turned to watch them both. 

Taren shot him through with another unimpressed glare. “This is _my_ land Dorian, to you it’s just a fantasy.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“Right,” Taren shook his head and let out a tired, bitter breath, “because you never say what you mean.” With that, he turned again, and pulled the door to his shop’s back room open, disappearing into it without a glance back. Dorian cursed under his breath and followed him. 

The back room of Taren’s shop was filled with art; extra stock of figurines and boxes of cards for the shelves, as well as piles of gorgeous paintings, half-finished new works, and more red-painted protest signs, which Taren set about gathering up under his arm in an aggravated hurry. 

He was about to try to say something redeeming again, when Taren beat him to speaking. “Do whatever you want, Dorian,” he muttered without looking up at him, “I don’t have time for this.” 

Then he was gone, out a back door and back into the cold. Dorian caught a glimpse of Sera, Dagna, and a few other people he recognized from their table at the community centre dinner gathered around a van behind the shop, piling their signs and megaphones into the back of it. He sighed, shook his head, and returned to the front of the shop. He crossed the street to his own car, and waited in it; watching as the small crowd of people mingling in the shop filtered out, all carrying candles or signs and fitting themselves like sardines into Taren’s van. It was a large, old rectangular thing, with thick tires and a white roof, dark teal paint along the sides decorated with spiralling flowers and vines, but shabbily; rust creeping over the edges and old mud caked over the fenders. He waited until the van pulled onto the street, and then he followed. 

\----

Taren’s van trundled down the road through town, passing by a little library and several more cute shops, cafes and small pubs, then winding down the road by the community centre. The main road passed a post office and a small police station whose sign declared that it was operated by some greater regional force, rather than the town itself, and from there it passed on out of town, past a welcome sign decorated with a familiar emblem of a sprawling, many-branched tree. The van then turned onto an unplowed side-street that bent upwards into the hills, the little cabins along it growing fewer and further between as the roads became lined with more and more trees. 

He took another turn, ducking into the trees on an unmarked road that was invisible until it came upon you, which Dorian would have missed entirely if not for the van’s slowing way down and marking the turn with a flashing turn signal. The new road was rough, a mix of gravel and thickly packed snow jostling Dorian’s car uncomfortably up and down as he followed along at a careful crawl. 

His upset and annoyance was interrupted somewhat by the drive. It was beautiful, like everything in this fantasy land of a place; snow covered thickets of leafless bushes and wintering plants sprawling over a wide ditch next to the narrow road, past which the forest began to spread out up the hills in dark evergreens and tall, silvery birches. But the sky was grey, and with the weak sun dipping ever westward, Dorian was forced to bend all his concentration to the unlit road, tensely aware that some wild thing could jump out in front of him again at any moment. Beauty of nature or not, he missed the sensation of driving down straight, smooth roads at night at speeds that were greater than were good for him, head clearing in the blur of fast-passing coloured lights. 

The road turned this way and that, winding steadily upwards and to the north, then it dipped down again, and eventually ran flat and straight east for a ways as the forests opened up ahead and the mountains which had only been visible at their peaks above the trees came fully into view. The sun set into gloomy evening, and the mountains emerged as deep grey shadows fogged in hazy mists against the darkening sky.

A few more roads began to branch off, thin and pressed with only the ski tracks of sleds and snowmobiles, coming up suddenly and without warning, and down their dark corridors were the distant lights of homes again, tucked away in secluded little spots around a wide, frozen lake. Taren kept driving along the bumpy trail as it curved around the frozen body of water, and then again, turned away. But instead of diving into another thicket of trees, the route branched onto a new gravel road; free of snow and marked with signs that disallowed the public, and in a wide field stretching far up onto the side of the nearest mountain, the trees had been rent from the land. All that was left were scattered branches and lumps of dull grey stumps. 

The van stopped, pulling up and parking next to a collection of other sturdy trucks, vans, and snowmobiles on the side of the road. Dorian parked his small black car a little ways back from the rest of the vehicles, and watched as the crowd of people packed into Taren’s van tumbled out again ahead of him. 

There was already a significant crowd gathered, and as Dorian got out of his own car and looked around, he saw that the road came to an abrupt end behind it — blocked by signs and chains around a line of exceedingly thick, tall evergreens that stood out as the sole survivors of the apparent purge. Beyond these saved trees the forest grew again, snaking back towards the lake that lay east, directly beneath what Dorian was able to establish as being one of the three peaks of mountains that Taren had pointed out to him from on high, that day on the ski hills. He was in Lavellan Valley, around which, and creeping wickedly into it, lay the scars on the land that he’d been able to see from a distance as they’d travelled the lodge’s service road. He attempted to orient himself, looking west at the hills which, somewhere, would become forested again and be populated with the amenities of Frostback Lodge. But now that he stood at the edge of that wasted land, it seemed to stretch out forever. 

He looked towards the barricade, a wide stretch of protest signs and patchwork fences, some corrugated metal and some pickets of painted wood, then still others created by thick chains wrapped around trees that were wider in diameter than the length of Taren’s entire bulky van. The forest that grew out beyond it was a marvel. 

The evergreens — pines and firs of sorts he couldn’t hope to name, their needles deep hues of blueish green and brighter emeralds — rose up higher than the tall office buildings of his home. Long, thick trunks of craggy dark wood rose for what seemed like endless stories, before branching off into a canopy of snow covered peaks. Where the valley grew flat across the lake there were younger trees, thinner trunks hidden behind thick blankets of needles which drooped, weighed down by the heavy snow, into the ground. On the very edges of the lake grew different breeds: tall, branching trees bare of their leaves. Their stems grew upwards in thin stalks, and split off into the sky, glimmering with thick coats of glassy ice. Sloping up and down in fields around the water they stood like tall grasses; grain fields for giants. The overlapping branches rose into the sky in elaborate patterns, weaving into one another like the tattoos across the elvhen faces in the crowd ahead of him. 

Upwards and into the mountains overhanging the valley across the frozen water, the limitless evergreens climbed on again, some thick around like the massive columns of ancient ruins, others tall and thin, jutting in sharp spikes out of the snow, and still more that were old and pale, slinking away up the mountains, white-barked and blending into the snow under the towers of thick pines that loomed like mountains themselves. If he hadn’t understood Taren’s steadfast love of this place yet, he certainly could now. 

All this natural green majesty made the seared and vacant field to his other side all the more sickening. Another dirt road snaked through the logged ruin, curling around uncountable snow-covered lumps of tree stumps and the abandoned wreckage of felled branches. A bright yellow bulldozer stood out in jarring contrast against the white and grey land, painted over in angry red accusations against the perpetrators of this crime, and in front of that, people were setting up a narrow platform. Dorian hung back, staying near to his car and watching as the crowd set to work assembling a makeshift stage. Most of the protestors were elvhen, their faces marked in delicate tattoos and hair styled with beads or braids, but once again, not all. 

Everywhere he went in this town, even at the lodge itself, Doian found himself struck by the blend of peoples that seemed to make up the community. There was a fair collection of dwarves — in his curiosity he’d researched the area further, and found that the mountains were the ancestral home to several no-longer-existent thaigs — but there were plenty of humans too, helping out with as much dedication as anyone else. It was a far cry from the kind of community he was used to.Tevinter was, by name, a society of equal opportunities. Long past were the days of race-restricted social classes and elvhen slavery, but even so, at its highest levels the society Dorian hailed from was mainly human. It took special distinction to achieve much as an elf, and people like his father still used the old slurs without so much as a hint of contrition. 

Dorian watched the crowd work, impressed. He had been a part of movements before; student unions advocating for various kinds of reform, but they had generally suffered from disorganized infighting and cliquey exclusionist politics that soon overtook the purposes at hand. Now and again someone radical and inspiring came along, but there was always power enough in the old houses to squash them — he’d been summarily squashed himself, a few times. As he watched this group of protesters, many of whom he now recognized, work together to strengthen their wall and set up the stage, he wondered how such a community could come together. The whole crowd seemed to hold a kind of power; determined, fierce, but warm. There were young people present — teens and even children, carrying signs and passing out candles and pouring hot drinks for one another out of steaming thermoses — and older adults too, greeting one another with respectful bows and full-bodied hugs. The crowd mingled and chatted, and no one group seemed any more or less engaged than another.

As the stage came together, the crowd gathered round and quieted. Dorian waded into it a little more, hanging back towards the far edge, still on the road, and watched as an all-too-familiar plucky blond hopped up onto the stage, megaphone in hand. 

Sera hyped up the crowd, quickly rallying everyone behind loud shouts of snappy slogans and a few punchy jokes, leading a chant and then quelling it again once the excitement around her had reached a healthy buzz. Then she stepped down, stepping back from the small platform to make room as she handed her megaphone off, and she handed it off to Taren. He switched it off, however, and then handed it right back. Sera hopped away with a shrug, signalling for the crowd to shush itself further with a finger at her lips, and then with one quick flip of the megaphone on and then off again, she called out “speech!”. A few approving cheers rose up from the nearer part of the crowd. 

Taren was laughing at first, responding to the introduction with his usual casual smile, but he quickly straightened his already perfect posture, and shook his head into a more serious expression. Then he began to speak. 

He began his speech in the same smooth, fast-flowing language which Dorian had heard him shout after his aunt, or Keeper, or he supposed maybe both, the night before. Only now he used it with the slow, practiced articulation of words put to memory. As he spoke, the words fell in a rhythmic and repetitive cadence, three or four beats to a phrase, followed by something shorter, the stresses on alliterative sounds. The lilting musicality of it was familiar, though Dorian couldn’t understand a word. Poetry, he realised, and of an old sort. The crowd stilled for it, so that he barely had to project his voice at all, though the sound still seemed to come from somewhere deep, and his soft words seemed to mingle with the wind rustling in the trees and the birdsong in the air. Dorian was filled with a sense that the words were wise, beautiful even, despite not having any idea what it all meant. And he was clearly not the only one. Around him, faces turned up to watch Taren recite the words with rapt attention, even from those in the crowd who were not Dalish, and must have been just as lost — lost but not _really_ lost — to their meaning as he. 

He soon found out the meaning of the words, for just as Taren finished the poem he switched his speech, falling back with ease into the common speech, and translating: 

> “There are stories in this land, and they are written in the trees.
> 
> There is magic in this place, and it flows down in the rivers
> 
> Love on the northwinds, spirits in the jewels that trail the sky.
> 
> Beauty in the valleys, hope etched into the stones.
> 
> This land is of the People,
> 
> who have kept it as long as the mountains,
> 
> but it is not ours.
> 
> “This land belongs to the birds, to the halla, to wolf and bear.
> 
> This land belongs to the small and the helpless,
> 
> to the spirits of old tales.
> 
> This land speaks in many voices
> 
> the stories of the People, 
> 
> But it is not ours.
> 
> “Yet still we protect it.
> 
> Yet still we keep it.
> 
> Forever the spirits of the People dwell,
> 
> Forever in this land that keeps us, 
> 
> Forever we are free.

“We are the Elvhenan,” he said, and then repeated the line once again in the Elvhen.

A reply came from a large segment of the crowd, tattooed faces in solemn agreement, _“vir enasalin!”_ , “and never again shall we submit.” 

It made Dorian's heart thud, even as he considered the words and found none of them to be out of place with a feeling he’d long respected. It wasn’t as though he had never given thought to the importance of nature — he was a scientist, not an idiot — but he’d never really loved it except for in the abstract. He still didn’t, if he was being honest. The cold, even now, was uncomfortable. His boots were bought in the city, and he’d chosen fashion over practicality like he always did, and the only reason his feet weren’t currently going numb in them was because he’d had the damned sentimentality to put on the knitted socks he’d been gifted the night before. But still, as he looked out over the forests, dark and quiet as they covered the mountainside, a measure of the restless discomfort in him felt settled; given peace, and drawn in.

Walking into the field a little more, his feet sank into the powdery ground. It collapsed into deep holes under his feet, shocking him at first and giving his sense of balance an unhappy little lurch; like stepping off a stair expecting another, only to find the floor further away than expected. He dragged his feet through it, the texture like air, and piles of the fine crystals enveloped themselves over his ankles, spilling into his too-short boots so that he was grateful, again, for the socks. He tried to find a way forward through already-made footprints, drawing nearer as Taren’s speech went on. 

“And there are also people here tonight who are not elvhen, but who are here because they understand, and love this land."

Taren continued, seemingly from the heart, every few sentences switching in and out of his native tongue, translating as he went. The Elvhen he spoke now came faster, bubbling with a comfortableness that didn’t quite continue into his translations. In Elvhen, his words flowed together in an energetic stream, soft as they bounced along, and yet still sharp — bold and heartfelt. Dorian watched him jump from one language to the other in fascination.

"People who have found love here, who have made homes here, and who fight for this land because they know that its value is not in lumber or in game, resources or attractions. There are people here tonight who aren't from here, who don't speak the languages and who didn't grow up on the tales of Emerald Knights or halla spirits or protective wolves, but who found a family here under the emerald sky all the same.” he said, in slow, purposeful Common, before going on again in rhythmic Elvhen.

Dorian had studied languages as an expected part of his formal education. An astute student and veritable polymath, he’d always done quite well; receiving exemplary marks on his grammar examinations and honourable distinctions for his ability to regurgitate the lengthy lists of verb conjugations in ancient Tevene. He had even enjoyed the study of it, in his way, using the archaic language sometimes in secret communications among his schoolmates as a boy, and keeping alive some of the more colourful phrases for when he was in need of a good curse. But when Taren had spoken of his thesis and paintings and how they related to the languages of his people, he hadn’t really understood the full scope of his commitment, nor the art of it. Now to hear him speak, with still more of that musical rhythm despite having dropped the practiced air of memorization, he felt his heart flutter again — reminded of Taren’s excitement and enthusiasm in the gallery, of his colourful paintings, of the way his tattoos glowed out of his skin and spun under Dorian’s hands… 

“If you know our keeper, you know that she doesn't let anyone go uncared for. Some of you call me Keeps, but I'm here tonight because Keeper Deshanna taught me what that title means. We keep the stories, the languages, the people, and we keep this land. We keep it safe, we keep it free." 

When he returned to the common speech, his accent stuck to the words a little more thickly than usual, but the transitions were smooth, and Dorian felt the words tug at his conscience again, rousing a rebellious spirit that had been feeling rather slumped over with disillusionment of late. Around him, the crowd was still reverent, listening on with all the pious concentration of the parishioners at the Chantry service he’d attended the night before — possibly more. But contrary to a Chantry sermon, pregnant with guilt and arduously repetitive, this speech was bright; as hopeful as his goofy smiles.

"...And when I was little and lost, she taught me: the land is the keeper of us all. Whether we are Elvhenan, whether we were born here, or whether we found ourselves here by chance or misfortune, we are all called to protect this land that keeps us.”

Behind Taren, Dorian spotted the elderly elvhen woman, Auntie Dee, as apparently everyone called her, standing tall and colourful in full traditional garb. The beads of her dress glinted in the warm candlelight set about the stage, and her long grey hair fell in ribbon-decorated braids, framing her high cheeks and round, artfully tattooed face. She was smiling on at Taren, her dark eyes brimming with pride, and for some reason, Dorian thought about childhood again; about his own forays into speech-making — fierce debates won against the children of his father’s friends and rivals. Ever striving to craft that perfect, clean snap of wit; all of them watching to see if the barbs on their tongues would earn them dignified praise from the stands. And, for some reason that he _really_ did not wish to examine further, he was hit with a sudden, choking jolt of jealousy. 

When Taren finished, he backed away from the platform to give way to her, and the towering elvhen woman stepped forward — _noble_ , Dorian thought, meaning only that — and began to lead the crowd in song. 

She began a slow, building chant of Elvhen, melodic and sorrowful. The song consisted of only a few words, repeating in a simple tune, and soon voices began to rise up around him, joining in. The music grew louder, the song falling from the lips of elves and otherwise alike, though not from Dorian. He simply listened, feeling the beat resonate in his chest as drums from somewhere in the crowd joined the chorus. Sound and pulsing vibration soon filled the forest, beating like a great and heavy heart, thrumming off the walls of the valley. 

And then, he was in it. Someone to his left passed him a candle, already lit, and as he held it in the glowing dark, the warm sea of unified voices surrounded him, and he thought: _Shit_ . _That’s how._

Time passed, and the song went on in its loop, quieting in places and pausing at times, but always someone was humming or chanting some refrain, while others would mingle or rest with their thermoses cupped in both hands and their backs against some great tree. Dorian shook himself from his awestruck trance, and set to work on finding Taren. 

He navigated the crowd as inconspicuously as he could, stumbling over snow-buried branches as he passed by groups of chattering young folk and elders with quiet determination over their faces, holding well-worn protest signs. Eventually, he spotted the thick green scarf and contrasting auburn hair, its beaded style now covered up again under a matching hat. Taren’s animated hands were waving, and he appeared to be engaged in debate with a sturdy looking young elf who lacked the traditional facial tattoos. 

Coming closer, Dorian noted the workboots and branded hat of the other elf, and realised he was there in opposition; an employee of the logging group. He caught only the tail end of the conversation as he stood back, watching curiously. 

“— what do you want me to do, quit my job?” 

“Yes! Or better, demand change. What do they pay here, anyway? Benefits? There used to be three companies in this valley, and until they were all bought out a lot of local residents worked in logging. It paid well and the work was steady but fair. They planted trees in the summers and worked with controlled harvests and limited the cutting of different kinds of wood. They consulted with the Dalish keepers, never came onto this land, even had arrangements with some local woodworkers and crafters,” he heard Taren answering in his enthusiastic way, his voice confident, but with more friendliness than he’d directed at Dorian that afternoon.

The other elf seemed to have little to say in his defence, though he crossed his arms and looked on at the crowd disapprovingly. But Dorian recognized the look on Taren’s face: he’d gotten started, and he was going to go on. 

“ — clear cuts destroy habitats, cause wildfires, ruin old growth forests that have been here since the valley was formed…”

Taren pointed out across the barren field, and began to explain its ancient significance, telling the skeptical elf of some mythical tale and, apparently, infecting him with his passion for it. The elf left him nodding slowly, a look of consideration on his face so heavy that Dorian half expected to find him clutching a candle later and chanting along. He shook his head, took a deep breath, and pressed forward into Taren’s line of sight. 

“You're inspiring,” he noted with approval that he hoped sounded as genuine as he meant it to. 

Taren turned to him, and his features all hardened at once. “Enjoying the show?” 

Dorian frowned, “I really do want to help. Maybe I could use some of my connections, bring attention to all this and put pressure on —”

“ — you could help by shooting down the proposal, like you said you _had_.” Taren replied, his words much more harsh than Dorian had even thought he was capable of sounding. 

He sighed heavily, “I did, I swear. It got... revived. I promise I had nothing to do with that.” 

Taren gave his face a long, searching look. Then he said, “good.” and turned away, stomping off through the snow, his heavy boots making deep prints with wide strides between them. 

Dorian stomped after him, struggling to keep up, “Taren, wait! Let me try to help, I could get you a meeting or, I don't know, fund all of this? I have money, I'll donate it to — to whatever organization you want.” he offered, attempting a jog to get his body in front of Taren’s again. 

Taren stopped, crossed his arms, and eyed him with that same searching look. 

“Why?”

“It's the right thing to do,” said Dorian. 

“Not because you want to keep sleeping with me?” 

He really was painfully direct. “That's beside the point,” Dorian began, shaking his head as he pleaded, “and I don't just want to keep sleeping with you, I want you to…” He stopped, stumbling to a halt where the end of his sentence should have been. He wanted him to what? Think well of him? Stop looking at him like that? Care about him? He didn't have the words anywhere in his vocabulary to express what was currently churning around in his gut. 

“What?” Taren demanded, staring him down, “what the hell do you want from me?” 

He couldn’t have answered that question even if he’d been given the chance, but before he could even attempt it, a bright flash of light and the sudden blaring of sirens overtook everything else. Several broad trucks were streaming down the logging road across the field, some marked for the regional police force and others branded with the same logo that the elf arguing with Taren had borne on his hat. Taren turned away from him again and broke into a run, and all around him the peaceful crowd stood to attention and gathered close around the barricades. 

Several things happened, all very quickly and without clear reason. The bright headlights of the trucks pulled up close to the crowd, practically blinding him as tens of aggressive, angry humans rushed forward. The officers from the police vehicles shouted over megaphones of their own, ordering the crowd to disperse. Sera sprang forward with her megaphone in hand, backed by Dagna and several members of the protesting crowd, jeering insults and chanting against the order. Men from the logging company in reflective security jackets pushed in, yelling close into any face they could get near. Dorian heard one of the men target a young protester with a racial epithet, and before he could even think to move, he watched Taren spring forward with his arm outstretched to hold the man back. More men pushed forward, clashing with the quickly mobilizing protesters. In some places along the line of fences, shoving matches broke out; police officers, or security guards, or both together escalating the violence, winning out with angry shoves, tackling dissidents to the snowy ground and sending billowing white clouds of it flying up into the air. 

There were more angry shouts, and rude calls of "knife ear" and “rabbit”, met with various responses of “hey man, there are kids here", "this is a peaceful vigil", "this is our land —”, and on, and louder. Taren was still blocking a security guard from his offensive tirade against the younger elf behind him, their faces close, the guard flushed and shouting while Taren's jaw sat tense and tight, his feet wide, posture tall. And then the guard’s hands were on his shoulders, and again Dorian thought to move, and again, before he could, Taren beat him hard to the punch. 

He froze. Taren’s fist made contact with the large man’s jaw, and the elf behind him ran back, catching something that Taren quickly tossed into the air. Then Taren too was falling, wrestling with his assailant into the snow. The younger elf bolted away, shouting for other members of the crowd to join him — heading towards Taren’s van, and Dorian realised the thing he had caught was a set of keys. 

He didn’t stay to watch the protest flail against its attackers to the bitter end, but he looked on long enough to hear Taren shouting as the security guard held him down, a knee on his chest until an officer came to drag his arms up and into handcuffs. 

“Get out of here!” he cried, to the group of younger, angry and yet scared elves hesitating as they ran back towards his van. “Go! Get the fuck out of here!” to Dorian too, his bright eyes finding him as Dorian began to rush forward, the anger that had been in them mere moments ago entirely replaced with desperate concern. 

And so, heart thundering in his chest, mind racing with hot, angry curses and bright, cold fear all at once, and feeling above all like a despicable, irredeemable coward, he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with issues here that hit pretty close to things that are real. Now is probably a good time to mention that I've never actually seen a Hallmark movie, but hard left turns into environmental activism are standard, right? 
> 
> This remains a generally escapist little story, but this conflict definitely takes after some current events. You can look up the Fairy Creek protests if you're interested...  
> Trying to do as much respect to this story as I can while still writing something incredibly sappy. Unlike in real life, I can still guarantee that happy ending. Wish fulfillment in fiction!


	8. Twelve Fucking Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Titular chapter! The heavy-handed hurt/comfort continues, now with more comfort. Dorian is still very terrible at this. Taren pines, and not the tree kind.

For Taren, the rest of the night passed with painful slowness. Despite the initial heavy disruption, most of the protesters left the scene unharmed; some getting away under cover of darkness back to their homes in the valley, and still others who were brought in to the small police station in town only to be swiftly released when it became clear that the charges brought against them would not hold. But that process of being brought in and questioned and packed away, then brought out again, and packed back away into a cell; watching, waiting, it dragged on. He sat on a hard, cold bench and tried to reassure anyone who looked more shaken than himself, sharing calming words as best as he could. Real injuries were treated; anything bleeding was bandaged, but with only bruises under his coat, the pain in his arms and chest simply grew with every passing hour.

The police station was far from large. Its front entrance contained several chairs and one large desk, and behind that the station broke into a collection of cramped rooms: a couple of small holding cells — never used much — two small conference rooms, a break room complete with microwave, dingy old fridge, and coffee pot, and then an office space containing all of four desks. It wasn’t often that the station took in many people at one time; occasionally a group of young tourists might get rowdy in the woods, but mostly the cells sat empty, and the officers themselves typically spent more time working _with_ Dalish rangers to help track down missing hikers in the valley than they did dealing with criminal activity. The protests against the logging company, which had been gaining traction slowly since they began in early fall, had until now been more or less untroubled by the limited force tasked with serving the valley. Evidently some petition had been made that was answered with force, but the officers themselves seemed more reluctant to make arrests than the private security officers who had joined them seemed inclined to simply scatter the crowd and dampen spirits. 

Still, a good dozen mainly elvhen, vocally irate protesters arrived in the backs of the heavy trucks, and were marched inside. The station grew loud and crowded, filled with the commotion of unhappy protesters being questioned and the incessant ringing of phones. As the hours went on, those who had been carted away were ultimately released, bruised and angry and further bent on their righteous cause, but generally unscathed. For the officers, paperwork was piling up, and every hour or so another protester would be released from one of the crowded little holding cells and sent on their way, usually without much more than a stern warning. The phones kept on ringing through the night, often answered with muffled arguments and unhappy muttering that could be heard even from the small cells tucked away in the back of the station.

The process of releasing protesters and bringing forward complaints against the logging company’s private security force took speed from the efforts from community leaders, and not an insubstantial amount of outside help. In fact, while he, Sera, Dagna, and a collection of other vocal organizers sat waiting and arguing their rights through the night, their counterparts outside continued to fight, and they had the benefit of some unexpected support. What had begun as a powerful backlash against the community was being quietly turned on its head, as someone with both money and a conscience worked to set things right. 

But Taren wouldn’t know of any of these efforts until morning. For his part, he was jostled, shoved, and shouted into the back of an officer’s truck, brought into town in handcuffs, and thrown unceremoniously into a holding cell until, at length, the officers of the station dragged him out to a small table in a dim room to be fingerprinted. A stout woman sat him at a desk and asked him a series of unending questions, in response to which he repeated a simple refrain of very little information, and then back into the cell he went. The noise in the station outside eventually quieted, and the people packed in with him were released, one by one. Eventually, he remained with only his fellow chief organizers: Sera and Dagna. They, like him, were accused of throwing punches and vandalizing property.

Both did their best to keep spirits high. Sera spent the entire night shouting insults and slogans rather than answering questions. Dagna stuck close to her side, looking impressively threatening for her stature. And both, once things had quieted down and their respective questioning had them returned to the holding cells, leaned forward from their bench in the cell next to Taren's to check on him. 

“This is going right fast, innit?” Sera proclaimed, grinning with forced confidence out of a face marred with not one, but two black eyes. 

“I bet it was Fancy.” Dagna added in a whisper, “Heard someone say their charges were all dropped in a second. Phone rang and boom, freedom. Didn’t he say he’d spend a pretty penny to help?” 

Taren was silent. 

“Could be, saw him run off. And couldn’t all be Auntie Jo,” Sera agreed, “she’s good, but just one person.” 

“You see Auntie Dee come in?” was the only addition Taren wanted to make to that line of thought. He didn’t particularly care how it was happening, whether the expedition of things was due to the meddling of a charismatic Aunti Jo, various community organizers, or Dorian. He hadn’t seen Deshanna leave, and he hadn’t seen her brought in, and his hands wouldn’t stop twitching. 

“No,” Dagna answered, “I’m sure she’s fine. Auntie’s tough as nails.” 

But he remained silent and restlessly twitching even as Sera’s head drooped down onto Dagna’s lap, and Dagna’s head leaned back against the cold wall of the adjacent cell, and the sun outside slowly rose into a pale white sky. His ribs ached; a dull, heavy pain that sharpened with his movements, and he was too vexed with concern for those he'd seen come and go, and those he hadn't, to take anything resembling rest. So he spent the night watching shadows move busily about the station on the other side of a large door windowed in thick, frosted glass, and listening to the neverending ringing of phones and muttering of aggravated voices. He sat stiff and straight, trying not to move too much, though his fingers remained busy, fiddling with the beads in his hair and eventually undoing the braids altogether. Then an officer noticed him playing with the loose beads, and promptly confiscated them, so that he had nothing more to fidget with except his own shirtsleeves. 

It was barely past dawn when the three of them were finally set free. 

They stumbled forward together, blinking in the clear morning light, into the station’s parking lot. At their backs the sun was half over the horizon, shining bright and low, rising in a huge pale yellow circle and sending a blinding glow out over the snow covered streets. Rays of morning light illuminated the white wisps of cloud in the clear, bleached-blue sky, while opposite the sun a thick wedge of moon still cut its stark shape out of the growing morning. The lot, well plowed and heavily salted, was mainly empty; a couple trucks in their spaces and a plow sitting at the ready to go out, and one small black car, parked right up close to the station’s doors. Leaning expectantly on its hood, wrapped in a thick brown coat and with black hair wildly mussed, as though hands had been running endlessly through it, was Dorian. He jumped up. 

“Thank the fucking Maker,” he muttered, as Taren broke away from the supporting hold of Sera to, despite whatever else he had spinning about in his head, lean into the grateful embrace of Dorian’s arms. One twitching worry left him, and for a moment he felt relieved, though as he pulled Dorian into himself — felt his hands firm at his waist, and then his heart sinking with the too-slow pull away — it was soon replaced by another. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, and fiddled with his beads, which had been returned to him upon his release, secured within an insulting little baggie. 

Sera and Dagna hung back, though not entirely out of earshot, as Dorian released Taren and looked him up and down to sate his worried face. 

“This was you?” Taren asked, his voice trembling as much as his hands. 

Dorian nodded, “I know a few good lawyers,” he attempted a shrug in answer, but the seriousness of his expression made the casual gesture hard to believe. 

“Auntie Dee?” first on his mind. 

“She’s fine, she was here. I told her I would stay so she could go home, she took your van and a lot of people…”

Taren let out a long, steadying breath. “Okay,” he nodded, “good. Thank you.” Another breath, some of his thoughts began to settle, and he was left with a straightforward plan of action: Auntie Dee’s house was only a short distance away. “I have to go.” 

He made to walk away, turning back to Sera and Dagna as Dorian caught him by the arm. 

“Hey, hold on,”

Taren blinked, looking back at Dorian’s still worried face. His heart skipped a beat, and a few more thoughts found their way back into his tired mind, but none of them had any hope of helping him to deal with _this,_ right now. 

“Let me give you a ride.” 

The thought he had in response to that offer was a sharp and resounding _no_. He needed the walk almost as much as he needed to get to her house, and he needed to get away from whatever Dorian was stirring up in his stomach even moreso. He needed to think, or to sleep, and definitely not to feel any of the things that talking to Dorian would bring out of him. There were more important things, and the longer he stood there with Dorian’s hand bracing his arm, the further away those things seemed. He shook his head. 

“I don’t want your help,” he said, and as he said it Dorian’s face fell into a frown, and another one of Taren’s agitated thoughts settled into place, “or your money.” 

But Dorian kept his arm, and kept his eyes in their uneasy connection with his own; grey storm clouds of fear and longing pulling his heart into faster beats. “Taren, please.”

He snapped his own eyes away, pulled back his arm with deliberate purpose. “What?” 

Dorian looked at first like he had a whole speech to give, but then he swallowed, the lump in his throat bobbing up and down before he opened his mouth, and all that came forth was a hoarse, quiet stutter. “I — I’m _sorry_.” 

Taren sighed, a vice around his heart, and whether it was because he was too tired to think or too full of thoughts to be reserved, it wasn’t clear, but he opened his mouth and out they came: the words to begin a conversation he wasn’t at all ready to have. 

“I care about _you_ , Dorian.” His voice came out now with a sudden clarity, and from there it was really all over. He’d be honest, and he’d say everything, whether it was wise to or not. Dorian flinched with the confession, and Taren tried to keep from watching what was sure to be a trembling avalanche of guilt again in his eyes. “You might be the most interesting person I’ve ever met. You’re charming, you’re impossibly smart, and passionate, and I” — he shook his head — “I like you.” The word sounded juvenile and insufficient for what he felt: impossibly connected; fate-twined and breathless. His face full of smiles he couldn’t help every time Dorian’s glance fell on him, besieged by the knowledge that he’d risk his stupid heart over him from the moment he’d complained his way into his life. Like one of a pair of blushing pilgrims, and in the wrong play; "too much, probably.” he said.

Dorian reached for his arm again, and this time he didn’t draw back. “But you’re so obviously unhappy, _uncomfortable_ in whatever life it is that you have, and I think you deserve better.” Taren risked a glance up into his eyes, and found them quivering, a glint of distress mixed with that heady pull of want, “I believe that you're sorry, that you mean well, I just wish you had told me.” 

And that was that; all he had to say. He watched Dorian register the words and sigh, shaking his head as he took a turn now in tearing his eyes away. 

“I can't _have_ better.” Dorian breathed bitterly, “I didn't tell you because, I don't know, because you’re right. I hate this life, and I hate that everything in it is about my father and his company. Even if fighting from the inside is the best thing I could do with my life, it somehow never feels like it. And I have such a history of just being that poor little rich boy, but…” 

It was more from him than Taren had expected to hear. He watched Dorian take a deep breath, and whether it was due to that pull on his heart or Dorian’s grip on his arm he couldn’t say, but he stepped closer. 

“With you I'm _not_ . I'm just me, and you're so real and I've never had anything like this and I just wanted it to be _mine_ .” Dorian continued, so close to him that Taren could fall, if he let himself, just collapse right there into the dark sea of longing waiting for him in Dorian’s eyes. “For just — _fuck_ — for just twelve fucking nights.” 

Dorian took another deep breath, and then both of them fell — and it was unclear who had the pull on who — into a long, deep kiss. It filled him; shook his soul and cleared his mind and warmed up every ache left by the fight in the snow and the night on a cold bench in a cell. He closed his eyes and sank into it, Dorian’s hands firm at his sides the only thing keeping him standing. It felt like it might never end, like he might just keep falling into him forever. But it did, and he pulled back and looked once again into Dorian’s lonely eyes, and then away. 

“I’m not your fantasy, Dorian.” He whispered. _Twelve fucking nights,_ he’d said. Just something to have for the sake of having had it, a taste of freedom to remind him that somewhere in the world, things were still real. “I don’t want that.” 

Then he turned, and his arms fell from Dorian’s grasp without any resistance, and with his eyes struggling to focus against the bright white of the world around him, he walked away. He heard Sera clearing her throat as he passed by, and Dagna saying, “ _we’ll_ take that ride,” and then he just kept walking. He tilted his head to the sky, and closed his eyes against the blinding light, and felt the aches in his body sink back into him in the cold, and he walked on. 

\----

Walking to Auntie Dee’s from the police station, even with tired limbs and slumping shoulders, took only about twenty minutes. And it was a road so straight and so familiar that Taren could probably walk it in his sleep. The road from the police station to Auntie Dee’s went straight east, away from town, then dipped into a long driveway, weaving a path in a slow zigzag up a high hill. Her house sat nestled into the top of the hill in a wide glade of trees, and from a little clearing at its edge, one could sit with legs dangling off a ledge of old rock, beside the statue of a shrewd-faced wolf, and look out over the whole town. 

He dragged his feet up her long, neatly cleared driveway, snow blown away diligently into even banks along its side. Up the hill he went, eyes drooping as his tired legs carried him slowly past the beaten back and and dormant berry bushes. Then he trudged around the tall pine in the centre of her yard, and finally lifted his weary frame up her three wooden porch steps. She was on him before he could open the door. 

“Thank the Creators,” she whispered, several times in hushed Elvhen as she threw her arms around him and all but carried him inside. “My sweet child,” she fussed, holding him back by his arms as he smiled, weakly, and then pulling him in again tight.

“ — ow,” he complained, startled into a laugh as her squeeze of his torso aggravated the bruising welts forming over his arms and chest. 

She released him, still tutting and fussing, and pulled him into her living room. She took his coat, tucked it away in a hall closet, and sat him swiftly down on a billowing old couch. He took a deep breath, falling into it, and tried to close his eyes. 

Auntie Dee’s house always smelled like burning wood and fresh pine, and a little bit like berries. Her walls were covered in picture frames, all filled with smiling photographs of families and children from as long ago as cameras had existed and from as recently as that year. Wooden figurines of woodland animals decorated her shelves and beaded wind chimes and stained glass emblems hung in many coloured tapestries across her windows. The colourful glass hangings displayed complicated mosaics: of the symbols of the Creators, of old words, and of stylized plants and animals. A tree stood in her living room that was much taller than the one Taren had tucked beside the fireplace in his own apartment, decorated with tinsel and childish paper snowflakes and many wooden ornaments — each one carved in the same hand, dating back through Satinalias past (with growing proficiency each year). Her fireplace was wide, built into the brick foundations of the cabin and spanning a lengthy section of the wood-panelled wall opposite the couch. In it a fire burned, and over it hung drying herbs. 

“Da’len,” she hovered over him, hands on her hips, “let me see.” 

He groaned, though quietly, as she struck him with a disapproving glare, and then he shrugged reluctantly out of his sweater, and let her examine the damage. 

A large bruise was forming over his chest, blotching red and purple into the centre of the encircling branches of tattoos over his left ribs and heartspace. A couple bruises on his arms, too, and a scrape on his side from a particularly rough branch that he hadn’t even felt, yet. Auntie Dee shook her head, sighing sadly and then bringing her fingers to her lips, and placing the kiss in the centre of that largest bruise, over his heart. She turned her hand flat, resting her palm over it as she muttered a few more hushed Elvhen words, and then quickly sprang up. 

“I will make you some tea; healing tea,” she declared, a burst of energy carrying her to the hanging herbs over the fire and then through a slightly pointed archway into a wide, open kitchen. 

“Are _you_ okay, Auntie?” Taren called after her from the couch, shrugging stiffly back into his sweater. The aches seemed to almost melt into the cushions as he sat back, but each new movement set them off, triggering one another in an unpleasant cascade of pain down his side. 

She popped her head back out of the kitchen to answer him, “no one catches Auntie Dee, you know that,” she smiled, “too many people to take care of, can’t do that if I get caught.” 

Taren leaned his head back into the couch with a chuckle, and then it seemed that only seconds passed before the kettle began to whistle. He lifted himself slowly from the couch and ambled gracelessly over to a dining chair at Auntie Dee’s table; a circular, carved piece of furniture in a large dining space adjacent to the kitchen. 

The dining room was windowed to look out to the front of the house through still more hanging mosaics of beads and glass, and the old round table sat polished at its centre. A light fixture hung over it like the one in his shop, carved like branches, and set with a dozen small light bulbs that were currently sitting unlit, leaving the room to be brightened only with the coloured light of the still climbing sun that shone through the decorated windows. 

She tutted at him as he sat down, and when she brought out the tea she also brought out food — plates of leftover holiday dishes; pie and potatoes and so on. Taren sighed and clutched the tea, inhaling its light, herbal scent and feeling the warmth of the cup in his hands. He blew away a plume of steam and sipped at it. 

“Why did you walk, da’len? I told that boy to bring you.” 

“I wanted to walk,” Taren replied. “Needed air.”

“He has a good heart,” she added, apparently seeing something in his face that warranted the raising of her eyebrow as she sat down beside him. 

Taren nodded, silently, sipping at his tea. 

“Wanted to help, on the phone all night. And says he knows people, wants to donate money” she went on, a hint of amusement in her tone. Taren looked up from his tea in surprise as Auntie Dee went on, “good talker, almost as good as Auntie Jo. Like a fox, that one; sly, but with sharp teeth. Had him at the centre all night, never sitting down — reminded me of someone.” 

“He was at the centre?” 

“You think he just waved his shiny credit card at the cops and they loosed everyone like that?” she chuckled, “not that it hurt.”

Taren scooped some mashed potato onto his plate and picked at it. “He feels guilty.” 

Auntie Dee nodded like she knew that already, then shrugged, “he helped. You are safe. I like that.”

Taren bent his head into his hands, falling onto his elbows over the table as he pushed back his plate. “I don’t know what to do,” he muttered into his arms. 

Aunie Dee gave his hair a gentle stroke, sighed, and leaned back in her own chair, shaking her head. “Da’len, sometimes these things are simple,” Her voice a soft scold. “He cares about you, thinks birds sing when you speak, I can see it on his face.”

Taren snorted, laughing quietly into his arms, still feeling sort of hopeless on the table. 

“Auntie…”

“And you are already in love with him,” she continued. Taren looked up, but remained hunched into the table, only turning his head to speak. 

“I am not,”

“Da’len.”

He sighed, pushing up to lean back again, and drinking a full mouthful of tea. “He’s going to leave in a few days,”

“ — and you’re so good at staying still?” 

“His life is… I don’t know. He doesn’t even talk about it.” Taren finished the tea, and tried again at the potatoes. “He talks like you said, like a fox.”

“People don’t always say things with words,” she replied, before taking his mug, and refilling it with more tea. 

\----

Auntie Dee made him sleep in the spare bedroom, the curtains drawn to keep the light out and more tea on the bedside table. When Taren awoke it was mid afternoon, and he felt somehow both better and worse; the aches deeper, but some strength returned. 

Auntie Dee was busy, simultaneously packing up food and pacing about the kitchen with her phone to her ear, prattling on in fast, decisive Elvhen as the long, coiled cord of her ancient corded phone snaked across the kitchen behind her. 

He wandered to the cupboard for a glass and then to the fridge in the kitchen to pour himself anything other than tea, and without pausing in her conversation on the phone at her ear, she grabbed him by the shoulders and walked him back out to the dining table, pushing him into a chair and placing a plate of food in front of him. 

He ate as Auntie Dee finished her conversation, and then feeling more energized, he insisted on joining her in packing up meals to bring down to the community centre. She let him help, though she tutted at him whenever she caught him wincing at some still spreading ache, then together they went out to her driveway and loaded the refreshments into his van. 

Auntie Dee drove, briefing him quickly on who was now where, which helped ease his worries, and when they arrived at the community centre a group of other aunties and younger elves came to gather up the food and carry it inside, sparing them both the labour. He followed Auntie Dee inside, doing his best to walk straight and appear untroubled, either in heart or body. As he passed the silver tree of plaques, a habitual hand brushing across its highest branches, and stepped into the gathering hall, he breathed out, losing some tension from his jaw that he hadn’t realised he still kept. 

The hall was brightly lit, though snowflakes still hung under the overhead lights on the ceiling, casting mosaics of cut-out shadows over the long tables where people sat working. He was met inside with friendly pats and hugs, which he returned gratefully, and then he scanned over the room, counting heads. A small crowd was spread out over the hall, chattering in groups here and there in fast speech of both Elvhen and Common, and he spotted Sera and Dagna hunched over a table together, talking excitedly and close over Dagna’s bulky old laptop. He took two sandwiches from one of the containers of food he’d prepared with Auntie Dee, and walked over. 

“Little T! All done with your sighing and pining already? I bet Big T you’d be at it at least a day.” She looked worse than him, dark bruises under her eyes and a brace over her right wrist, but she was beaming brightly up at him anyway, undaunted. Beside her, Dagna continued to type away in a frenzy, a secretive and mischievous smile peeking out from behind the screen. 

“Shut up,” he shrugged off the teasing, and then regretted it when the action sent a pang of pain through his left shoulder, “what are you two up to now?” 

“Somethin’ hilarious,” Sera replied, “you’ll see.” 

He shook his head, and then made the rounds of checking in with other people; some of whom had been taken in the night before, and others who had been working in shifts all night, taking care of those who came in and sending out volunteers to account for everyone else. He stayed a few hours, talking to people as they came in and trying to help organize things around the centre while evading the reprimands of Auntie Dee. There were boxes of donated winter clothes to sort through and newly raised funds from the holiday craft fair to allocate, on top of the buzzing excitement around the previous night’s events. He busied himself with work and productive conversation; finding out more of what happened, and to who, and forming plans to get out to the valley again, strength redoubled. Once he’d been thoroughly updated, and his worries were mainly assuaged, he finally let the pestering of Auntie Dee command him home. She gave him a ride, and he lent out his van to work with for the rest of the day. 

"Rest, da'len," she ordered as he stepped wearily out onto the sidewalk in front of the shop. "You make me proud," she said, and followed it with another hushed Elvhen blessing as she set a kiss on his forehead before letting him go, "now go get some sleep." 

He looked at the storefront of his shop, darkened and quiet behind the windows, crowded with crafts. He stood a moment, breathing deep as he took in the building — from the temperamental pipes poking down into the cold basement, past the display windows and the old bear in front, to the soft curtains draped over his tiny living room's window, and the shadow of his tree behind them; all of it home.

Then he went upstairs, and fell flat and utterly deflated onto his bed. 

\----

He slept the whole night, waking up to an alarm set on his radio like any day, and dragging himself through the morning with a good deal more effort than most. He showered, standing in the heat until the pipes decided he had had enough. Then still feeling tightness in his every muscle, he dressed, throwing on the first soft things he found. He made coffee, and ate leftover pie for breakfast, and then he opened the shop. 

Business was steady enough, an occasionally ebbing stream of unaffected tourists who had no reckoning of the recent drama, and visits from friends with news. In between customers, he busied himself over an easel in the back, and tried to paint a way through his thoughts. As the day went on, he heard more news about charges being dropped and legal challenges being levelled against the logging group from Friends as they dropped by; the interventions of Auntie Jo an ongoing affair. Quite a few people also mentioned Dorian, and his efforts on everyone's behalf. Taren tried not to brood, studied his canvas, and concentrated on colours. 

Late in the afternoon, as he was readying to close, Sera and Dagna arrived, checking in on their way home from their shifts back at the lodge (and a little bit of everywhere). They told him even more things he didn't want to know, like how events had transpired leading up to Dorian's appearance at the community centre Satinalia night, and all he'd said in Taren's defence — leaving Taren's cheeks bright red. Then they stuck around for a while longer, sharing food and joking around his fireplace until evening before heading off home.

After they'd gone, he settled in with a book, though what he thought about was Dorian, and endeavoured to relax his muscles with more tea. He was three unread pages in, considering that dumbstruck elation he wanted to feel again at the sight of Dorian's face, and the uneasy, complicated things that stood in its way, when out of the corner of his eye he registered two glowing pricks of light as they came down the road, and turned into the parking lot on the street below. 


	9. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They start to figure things out, and go on a date. Taren is sweet, Dorian might combust. Vivienne makes a cameo. Bit of a longer chapter with a lot of ground to cover, but we're getting there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: some allusions to alcohol abuse and highly unethical therapies.

After an endless night at the community centre and an exhausted day of feeling sorry for himself in his cabin at the lodge, Dorian woke the next morning to an unending stream of notifications in his inbox. At first, he was extremely amused by what he found. Overnight, equipped with nothing but Halward Pavus' personal email address and the information about him readily available online, it seemed that some anonymous prankster (or pranksters, he was fairly certain) had managed to hack into all of his father's social media accounts and thoroughly embarrass him. It was all mostly innocuous; Halward’s profile pictures changed to those of muscular shirtless men or photoshopped images of himself waving rainbow flags, articles and quotes from famous activists shared across his various platforms, and even a few posts made as though they were public statements from the man himself, promising to donate substantial, but still not extravagant, sums of money to charity organizations he was notably opposed to; environmental causes and tolerance campaigns chief among them. No donations actually made, and what was promised would hardly break the bank, but they would be embarrassing and conspicuous ordeals to back out of. 

Dorian cycled through the applications on his phone with glee, chuckling delightedly to himself in his cabin, until he realised that the prank also extended to him. He stopped laughing, and his lips set in a sour pout. His treatment was less harsh, limited to the changing of all his social media photos to one repeated picture of a donkey's behind. But still, all of them. Changing them all back would be a pain in the — no. Too much. He sighed, now scrolling through the onslaught of laughing comments already piling up at his expense. But he had to admit, the feat was kind of incredible.

He went to his morning meeting. Officially, there was supposed to be a lull in the workload over the next few days; some time to actually retreat, as it were. But there were still morning debriefings, because his father believed in the optimal functionality of an early start, and hated the very concept of a vacation, apparently. Dorian's opposition to the logging deal still seemed to be inconsequential, though he was sure that once his father caught wind of how he’d spent his time and money over the last couple nights, he’d be facing some consequence or another. Until then, he was working on _not working_ — spending as much time hidden in his cabin, not answering his emails, as he thought he could get away with. He arrived at the meeting more to enjoy the aggravation that would be spread across his father’s face at the pranks than to find out what work would be asked of him. 

For once, he was not disappointed. Halward knew about the protests, knew Dorian had been busy supporting the local community and befriending activists — he could tell from the way his eyes narrowed at him and the extra bit of snarl that he added to his greeting. But he couldn’t actually do anything about it; all Dorian had done was make a few phone calls, and donate money to a not-for-profit community centre. The fact that the money entered into a bail fund for protesters targeting a company his father was in the process of investing in wasn’t written anywhere on the cheques, and that he’d spent his personal time receiving an overnight crash-course in community organization was impossible to prove. But that didn’t stop Halward from squaring the blame for the pranks on him, and demanding that he explain himself. 

"Evidently your new investment has ruffled some feathers, but as for the juvenile response, I'm sure I wouldn't know anything about that.” Dorian was glad to be able to quip, mostly honestly, in reply. “You’ll notice that the perpetrators have taken to targeting our entire family,” he went on -- they'd hit his mother too, he'd checked, “so thank you for that. I’m still not finished changing all my photos back.” 

Halward’s look was grim and unamused, but there was still nothing he could do, and he moved on with the morning debriefings grudgingly, his speech faster and more snappish than usual. He went over all the regular business, and then gave Dorian another task meant for an assistant, laying a fresh pile of tedious client emails at Dorian's overqualified feet.

Dorian left the meeting still smiling more than scowling, and went straight over to the little souvenir shop in the lobby.

Sera sat behind the counter, doodling away clumsily, given her bandaged wrist, in a messy sketchbook. Holiday music played over a tinny overhead speaker, but Sera had on earbuds -- one in and one dangling off her tapered ears -- which were blaring out heavy guitar riffs loud enough that he could hear them from the doorway, and was paying the guests who browsed the rows of stuffed animals and souvenir candies absolutely no mind. He took out his phone, still open to the tab of one of his personal social accounts, and got in her way. 

"This is your doing, I presume?" He did his best to appear entirely perturbed, though he was still mostly entertained, and Sera looked up, taking in the donkey's rear on his phone screen with a proud snicker.

"Brilliant, right?" she grinned at him, wide and toothy, "’cause you're an ass." 

"Yes, believe it or not I understood your cleverly coded message," he said coolly, "is this how you repay everyone who saves you from lengthy legal battles, then?" 

"No," Sera went back to her scribbling, the page at her elbow filling with crude caricatures of customers, sporadic designs, and collections of cartoony little bees, "I'll repay you for that with a ten percent discount. Anything you like." She grinned again, starting a rounded sketch of something with both floppy ears and a moustache, and he was pretty sure he could guess what. 

"Very funny." he said, crossing his arms expectantly.

"Warned you not to mess with his head," Sera reprimanded him without looking up, adding hoofs and a thin tail. She gave the moustached creature an exaggerated sorry expression and swooping black hair. 

"I didn't --" he began to protest, but it was interrupted by a particularly sharp look. 

Dorian sighed, and grabbed one of the stuffed lumberjack bears off a nearby shelf. "I'll take the bear." he said. 

"One bear and one Dori-ass!" said Sera, and then she ripped the drawing from her sketchbook and folded it with his receipt as he paid for the discounted toy. “Thanks though, for the bail-out,” she said finally, as Dorian pocketed the artwork, “next time let’s see you fight like regular people, yeah?” She raised her fists in a boxer’s stance and gave the air a couple play-punches.

“So I can wind up like you?” he replied, tracing the air in circles in front of his eyes to indicate her bruises, which were unevenly blotching across her face in deep, ugly purples.

Sera winked one of her black eyes at him, “save you the time of putting on your makeup,” she said, then shrugging, “fight how you like, so long as you do.” 

He wasn’t sure he appreciated the vaguely threatening air of that last part, but he nodded in agreement anyway — he had no intentions of stopping. 

Dorian had no intentions of answering any emails, either. Instead of visiting the lounge, hot springs, restaurants, or even the minibar of his own cabin, he wrapped himself securely in the fabulously grotesque and comfortingly warm furs of his big brown coat and pulled on his knit socks, then his boots, and went outside. 

He set off mostly aimlessly, retracing the end of the roundabout trail through the woods that Taren had taken him on until he came to the lodge's service road. He turned to walk along the iced gravel of the road, not paying much attention to its direction as it wound it's way up and down the hills of the resort's land, trailing behind luxury cabins and through patches of woods where it connected with ski trails and snowshoeing paths. 

He watched the trees as he walked, not quite so majestic as the ones in the old forest at the edge of the valley, but tall and dark and inspiring, all the same. He wondered, for the first time, what kinds they were, and figured that Taren would probably know. He should have asked. Should have said a lot of things, really. Should have explained, at any of the many opportunities he'd had, exactly what it was he did for a living, for one, and why. Told him honestly about the kind of life he lived, about his father and all the power held over his high-born head. Taren had no problem sharing his own life; introducing him casually to family, offering to listen — to care — like it was as natural as… trees. An endless horizon of trees, up and down the road and the climbing mountains. Blue-green and grey-brown and snow-dusted white, in every direction; almost. Along the service road's hills, sometimes he could make out those spots in the distance where everything was razed away.

He stopped for a moment to watch the tips of the nearby pines as they swayed in a thin breeze, and then looked down at the thick pile of snow filling the ditch beside the road, and thought about just falling backwards into it, sinking into the deep white powder until it covered up his whole body.

He kept walking, and thinking about should-haves. 

Should have warned him about the deal and told him what he knew, at the very least. Should have told him what he felt, when he’d had the chance. Should have told him what he wanted; should have known how to answer. Should have asked, just asked: _how do I hold on to this? How can I keep what I found here? What is more, and how do I give you that?_

Or, came the other side of the argument, he should have just never done any of it at all. Should have said no, no to beers and no to skiing and no to _dates_ and just no, like always, before Taren got the chance to figure out all the reasons there were to do it to _him_. 

Had he ever been rejected before? He stopped walking and began to turn back, wandering back down the middle of the service road towards the lodge, the sun fading on his left. Never really asked not to be, had he? And that was just it; he still hadn’t. He had more or less told Taren he wanted the opposite of something real. He stopped again, this time pausing in the road to further process that particular thought. 

Was _that_ what he wanted? "Something real"? He considered the word, if it was the answer he should have given Taren — if he even knew what it meant. The return home was coming upon him frighteningly fast, only a few days away now, and the more he thought about going back to a life of gruelling work hours and frivolous weekend escapism, the more he found himself butting up against one particularly painful thought: nothing in his life was real. 

What miserable irony. 

He had been so busy pushing the idea away that he hadn't asked any of the right questions. Of course it was what he wanted — the exact thing he'd always wanted — and he had pulled away and held his guard and now, too late, he was asking the wind for answers to questions he'd been too afraid to ask. If he could have...something, what would that look like? Dorian started walking again, kicking at the bits of icy gravel in the road. They would have called each other and... maybe visited, sometimes. 

_More_ . He could have tried, at least, if he wasn’t such a coward. Should have said yes. He should have tried to have just a little _more_. Could try. Would.

He frowned into a sudden gust of breeze, which kicked up a light dusting of snow into his face. How would one even begin to ask for that? he wondered, as he arrived back at his cabin and continued to wander aimlessly inside. He paced around the couch and directed his frown down at his laptop on the coffee table. 

Too late, he reminded himself as he reluctantly made an attempt to abandon the miserable thought and answer some of those emails, after all. Better not to get carried away deciding what he wanted now, when he knew better than ever that he couldn't _have_ it. He'd had his chance, had more than once chance, and he _should have_ taken one, but it was too late now.

_— I don’t want that._

But he never said that what he wanted had changed. So if Dorian could just find the right thing to say for himself then maybe…

He didn’t finish answering emails. 

What could he possibly say? He wrapped himself back in the coat and started his car from the cabin with the press of a button on his keychain.

What if he said no again? — he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he started down the road — and also, what if he said yes?

\----

Dorian continued his inner debate all the way down the mountain, driving slow as the sun finished setting in a fading gradient of colour from orange-reds to pink-stained yellows behind him, and watching for wild animals, but very much occupied with the oscillating hopes and fears running through his head. Then he pulled into the parking lot, empty as it ever was, got out of his car, oscillated in his thoughts again, and quickly got back in. He turned the key in the ignition, but didn’t shift into gear; just sat trying out words, changing his mind and then changing it back, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel some more. 

After a few more minutes of exasperating debate with himself in the parking lot, a sudden tapping sound interrupted him, and he jumped. Then he thought, _kaffas,_ as he looked out to see Taren, knocking his knuckles against the passenger’s side window with one of those patient, mocking smirks resting in it’s tilted crescent on his face. 

He pressed a button, and the window slid down, letting in the cold. 

“You are aware that I can see you from my living room, right?” Taren nodded his head up towards the window centred on the floor above his shop, which sat in plain view. A light still shone dimly through the curtains from inside, the tree in a silhouette against it. 

“I was going to —” Dorian glanced down at the cupholder next to him, where Taren’s mug, washed and ready to be returned, had been sitting since Satinalia. He grabbed it, and Taren’s smirk gained a confused and emphatic head-tilt. Dorian could feel the heat rising to his face, and tight, jerky twitches threatening to trouble his hands and feet. 

“Why don't you just come in,” Taren glanced disapprovingly at the little circular vents on the dashboard of Dorian’s car, all pointing blasts of hot air directly at him, “you’re going to kill your car.”

Dorian almost fumbled his keys as he took them from the ignition, and got out of the car with too hard of a slam at the door. He took a hasty lungful of cold air as he stepped out, and then tried not to cough as he blinked back against the sharp edge of cold hitting the back of his throat. Taren turned and crossed the street, motioning him along and seeming all too relaxed about it. 

Dorian followed him up the narrow stairs and into his apartment, clutching the beaten old mug the whole way. He tried not to watch Taren walk; to do anything uncouth like staring at his ass or remembering the softness of his hair twined in his fingers or thinking about kissing away the smirk that had already settled itself into place on his musical lips. He tried to focus, and to will the words he needed out of the air. _Kaffas_ , he thought again. He never found himself without words, it was one of his more impressive talents. He thought of several more curse words. He was supposed to be _good_ at finding the right things to say. 

Taren entered the apartment, tossed his coat on a hook and kicked his boots off onto a mat and then with much less ease than Dorian was used to seeing from him, he leaned against the couch, and looked at him. 

"I —" Dorian stopped. Empty air where words should be. He took a breath, and tried again. Opened his mouth, closed it. He ran a hand through his hair and handed Taren his mug, pressing it into his hands. "I don't know how to do this, I've never done this," he said.

Taren put the cup aside, placing it on the coffee table, but his eyes never left Dorian as he stood there, still trying not to stammer. Then he went back to his lean against the couch, a vision of comfort in his overflowing bookcase of a living room, even if his posture was too rigid. 

"Tell me what you want." he said, like it was easy. 

Dorian looked at him, gold and soft sage marbled and sparkling in his eyes, the lamplight glowing as fire and amber through his hair, the last remnant of a smile still a whisper on his face — just out of reach. And suddenly, it was: 

"You." Dorian said. 

"For just twelve fucking nights?"

"For as long as you'll grant me." He promised, "frankly, now I've met you, I simply can't imagine not knowing you." He took a step, pulled along, drifting over the floor, tangles of ropes all through him tightening as they pulled him in. 

“Ok,” the trace of smile picked up a little, and Taren’s shoulders rose in just the slightest of shrugs. 

“Ok?” Dorian repeated. Relief tugged at him, a rope in the tangle that slacked, and then suddenly coiled up around his throat to threaten his life, “that's it? Just, 'ok'?” 

Taren nodded as he rose from his lean and took a step towards him, and all of Dorian’s invisible tangling ropes of tense need lashed themselves to him like a ship being rigged to dock. Taren came within reach, reached out, took him lightly by the elbow and pulled him gently into a kiss. 

The kiss exploded on impact, hard and deep, tying them together. He stayed there, hands moving into rough grips at his soft — so soft — sweater, his lips pulling away from Taren’s only to dive back in for more. He felt tethered from head to toe; wrapped in strings, bound up and attached to Taren’s body — space bending around the whole room, like gravity. His mind filled with nothing but thundering heartbeats. 

Taren pulled back again, his face close as his eyes opened and Dorian steadied himself on their gaze. The smile was back, full and happy and still sort of laughing at him, but he didn’t care. 

“Ok,” Taren said again, capping the whisper with another quick kiss, “you can have me.” 

Dorian breathed, possibly for the first time all day. “Just like that?”

Taren leaned into him, pressing his body up against Dorian’s in a full embrace, perching his chin up over Dorian’s shoulder, “I'm not saying it's a good idea, but,” he could hear that smile still mocking him behind the words, and he still didn’t care; Taren shrugged again as he pulled away — but only halfway, a hand still on Dorian’s arm, Dorian’s fingers still grasping onto the grey fleece of his sweater, “I'll risk it.” 

Dorian kissed him again. Again and again and again, pulling him into himself by the fabric in his fingers and then moving his fingers up into his hair, losing his breath to kisses and then pressing on for still more. Heart fast and head soaring and Taren’s hands pulling at him with equal force until — 

Taren winced and stiffened as Dorian tugged him in closer, a palm over his ribs. A sharp intake of air whistled through his clenched teeth, and he stopped. Taren kissed him two more times, gentle and much more chaste than what had been running away with them a moment ago. Dorian forced himself to take a step back, loosening his grip but keeping a light touch at Taren’s side. 

“You’re hurt,” thinking about it sent something sinking within him, dark and deep and a little too angry. 

“I’m fine, just a little sore.” Taren corrected, but the shrug he gave the words made him wince again. Dorian kept himself as separate as he could, looking down now to the couch behind him, taking in the lived-in living room. The tattered blanket of patchwork crochet squares was sitting in a rumpled heap on one end of the couch, and a worn paperback was tossed aside on top of that, with one of those fabric hot-and-cold packs beside it. Tea on the coffee table with a scent so strong it had to be medicinal, and no fire in the fireplace, even though it was cold. He felt distinctly like he was interrupting something, disturbing a carefully crafted peace and quiet with his selfish heart. 

"The money from…" shit, the injustice burned, "from my company, they used it to hire that private security force. They had no right to disrupt the vigil, and the arrests were so flimsy. Nothing's going to hold." 

"I know," Taren replied, apparently untroubled. 

"And the clan can sue, and win — that Antivan woman —" 

"Auntie Jo," Taren nodded, "she can move mountains with a few phone calls, I know." He said again, and of course he did, but Dorian was very much done with not telling him things, with not doing enough. 

"It won't stop the logging, or the investment, but it will slow things down." 

Taren nodded, reaching for him again, "I don't blame you," he said, "you don't have to look at me like that." 

Dorian paused in his explanation, surprised at the relief he found in those few soft spoken words. "Like what?" 

"Guilty." 

"I…” but he was, unspeakably. He took in Taren’s face, in his grateful relief he’d seemed entirely perfect; a slender jaw and jovial smile, soft eyes, flowing hair. But there was tightness to his jaw now, and the muscles behind his smile twitched with his movements. Taren held him by the shoulder, smiling as he pulled himself in still closer, but slow to move, his eyes shadowed, clearly exhausted. “I just ran." 

"I'm glad you did." His words came as a breath awash with soft relief, but they didn’t help. 

"I know you don't need it,” Dorian went on, guilt still spreading as Taren stayed in his arms, “and that Auntie Dee woman won't let me write any more cheques, anyway, but," Taren began smirking at him again, "there might still be something I can do — help you do — if you wanted." Words he'd practiced in his car, finally making their way back to him, "I — I _feel_ responsible and I _want_ to make it up to you and I have an idea…" Taren settled back into his lean on the back of his couch, nodding for him to go on. "There's a dinner for the New Year. Clients, investors, rivals and partners — all very elite. The executive team from V. Lumber will be there, and because the deal's being rushed through, they’ll be in meetings all day first. Lots of security, considering, but if your friends had access during the party," 

"You've been talking to Sera." he raised an eyebrow, the amused expression shifting into intrigue. 

Dorian nodded, "I've been _pranked_ by Sera. If she and Dagna could apply that skill to say, finding incriminating tax fraud documents or, well, there's almost always something." He shrugged, "I can get you all in, and I'm quite good at causing distractions." 

"Aren't you worried they'll take you down, too?" 

"I don't think Halward Pavus is a ship they _can_ sink, I've certainly never had any luck. But they might dent it, and I'd be glad to help. My house could use some humbling." 

Taren nodded slowly, "it's not a bad idea," he said. His expression turned thoughtful as he considered it, bringing a hand up to thumb the tattoos on his chin in an unconscious gesture. Dorian could practically see the gears flickering to motion behind those shining eyes of his, planning. 

He'd learned more about Taren and his protesting cohorts in the night after his shameful escape from the disrupted protest. That Taren loved the valley and took action against those who meant it harm had been obvious from the start, but until he'd gone out and gotten himself arrested for it, Dorian hadn’t considered just how much it occupied his life, or that simple holiday nonsense really wasn’t all there was to it. He should have asked, he supposed, he'd had opportunity enough for that too — sometime between the histories of old hunting trails and the admission of vandalism would have been appropriate. But that night it all clicked. First the speech, then the springing to action — a foolishly protective blighter, it turned out, jumping in to take blows from a man twice his size without a moment's hesitation — and oh, Dorian really did hate him for that. He'd then been brought up on charges of organizing the whole damn thing, and not just this time, every time. Apparently the protests had been happening in the valley for months, a fact conveniently left out of the resort's brochures and the lumber company's proposals. People at the centre that night buzzed about him with awe and worry; _Keeps_ , they all called him. As in _Keeper_ . He wasn't _the_ Keeper, of course; that was Deshanna — Auntie Dee — who had sped around the place like a tornado; papers flying and voice barking, in and out of the centre all night as she accounted for everyone, be they members of her clan or no, but Taren was by all accounts the next in command. Maybe the Valley was a small pond, but Taren Lavellan was no simple shopkeeper. 

And so he'd put it together, a little contribution of his own to help sow the kind of chaos Sera and Dagna had vowed — in between their glares and pressing questions about his father’s email address, birthdate, and middle name — to ensue. Only his idea was slightly more coordinated; something that might actually be able to stop the industry eating up the valley, or at least force a retreat.

"There's one more thing," Dorian continued, "it's a masquerade, sort of an Orlesian theme; dancing and masks and lots of free sparkling wine, if you'd like to —" his cheeks were beginning to heat up, because _this_ bit was silly and unnecessary, "if I could ask you to dance." 

Taren grinned. "Dancing and corporate sabotage?" he asked, laughing. The sound approving, and making Dorian smile. "Deal. It's a date." he agreed, still very much too casual about the words he threw around; relief was undoing itself and then strangling Dorian again with every easy smile Taren tossed his way. 

And that felt… silly and unnecessary and amazing. He breathed out in relief again, then suddenly realised he was still just kind of wringing his hands in Taren's entryway, standing there getting hot in his coat and not sure what was supposed to happen next. 

"I suppose I should let you rest and… I'll come by the shop, well, whenever you'd like, really." 

"You could just stay." Taren suggested, motioning to the couch. He pulled him into another embrace, this time slipping his hands in under the collar of his coat, helping it off his shoulders in a slow tug. "Unless you have somewhere else to be? Early meetings?" 

"Actually, I've decided to stage my own little protest," he replied, smiling as he discarded the coat fully, and left it on a hook behind him. "I have three days left here, and I don't plan to do a thing before noon on any of them." 

Taren chuckled, “well, I’m opening the shop at ten,” he replied, then as he pulled Dorian down beside himself on the couch, he sighed a tired sigh into it, and reached longingly for his cold compress, “maybe ten-ish,” he amended. 

So Dorian stayed, kissing him still more, carefully, but also just talking. He asked Taren about the shop, and listened in earnest to the details of how life was lived in this small community. And he talked, more than he yet had, about his own life. His reasons for being trapped in the life he led were complicated, and he skirted around more than he fully explained the great financial debt of having everything he’d ever needed (and a few sojourns at certain kinds of _facilities_ that he really hadn’t) paid for by his loving parents — tying him to a life of working it all off. He made the point without really saying it, but Taren didn’t pry. He did ask though, in a conversational way, what it was all like. So Dorian described the doldrums of work emails and battles with spreadsheets, while Taren listened to his tales of petty workplace drama and opulent Tevinter parties with interest that _must_ have been feigned, but didn't feel so. At some point, Taren offered him a plate of cold, leftover berry pie, which turned out to be the best thing he’d eaten in days, and then conversation slowed, and Taren’s head began to lean onto his shoulder. 

Dorian kissed him again, and Taren gave his head a short shake, sleepily muttering “bed,” as he pushed himself up from the couch. 

This whole question of staying, Dorian had forgotten to clarify where it ended. If there was to be sleeping again, in his bed. Whatever that speech he'd espoused in the doorway had accomplished that had left him feeling so high-flying and relieved, he now felt he needed a spreadsheet for the situation to organize his thoughts around. There had to be rules, even here where everything was soft and messy. Taren's apartment and demeanor and affection were all too comfortable. It made him sweat. 

His hesitancy left him on the couch while Taren shuffled off to the bathroom, and when he came back again he came with the faintest hint of mint and coconut in the air around him, and holding a bright green, cardboard-and-plastic wrapped, ordinary, new toothbrush. 

"Hey, you can just have this, um —" Taren shrugged as he passed Dorian the device, and Dorian took it with a blank stare, "I bought a three-pack last time, so…" 

Dorian's cheeks felt hot, and he probably needed to blink. _Three pack_ , he thought; directionless and stunned. He took a breath, but to keep doing so he had to keep thinking about it the whole time, so rather than saying anything he simply nodded, and took the toothbrush in all its "recommended by five out of five dentists" appraised packaging with him into Taren's tiny bathroom. 

When he came out again -- cold water freshening his very red cheeks and slightly more ease to his breathing, his teeth brushed, and his (his?) toothbrush left nervously on the counter by the sink, he found Taren in his bedroom, undressing. 

Dorian stopped in the doorway, and his heart lurched. There was no other word for the driving, downward force on his chest at the sight of him -- beaten, bruised, and scraped, a collection of rough scratches over his side, blotches of yellowing purple staining the tan of his skin, obscuring and darkening the intricacies of tattoo over his chest. 

Taren stopped, one bruising arm reached over his head in a careful, too-tense stretch, struggling to straighten, as he caught Dorian staring. His cheeks flushed, and Dorian swallowed. 

"I feel very badly about this…" he found himself there, touching it, a feather light grazing of his fingers across Taren's chest as Taren relaxed out of his stretch and stepped into him. "Incredibly unhappy, and a little bit violent." Dorian finished, the fingers of his right hand flexed themselves in and out of a fist, while his left lingered over Taren’s chest, which was close and shaking with shallow breaths, somewhat bent in and slouched, but still so very warm. 

“I’m fine,” Taren brushed off his words with certainty, shrugging himself back away towards the bed, “I’ve seen worse.” 

“That's not the comforting statement you think it is,” Dorian followed after him, driven to be near him again just at the thought. 

“You did a lot. I do appreciate it.” Taren said, frowning, and Dorian knew it was because he felt he was looking at him guiltily again. He was. 

“You don't have to. I meant what I said about wanting to do the right thing. But the recognition doesn't hurt.” Dorian did his best to smile over it all with him, as though any of what was happening here was alright or normal — from the bruises on Taren’s chest to the feeling in his own. 

Taren fell asleep quickly, an arm draped over Dorian’s chest as he curled his face towards his side. He was breathing slowly and his skin was smooth under his fingertips, and Dorian thought he would be lying there all night, just watching the shadowy shape of him rising and falling in the dark, feeling guilty in ways both old and new, unable to steady his breathing. But at some point the calm and quiet warmth took hold, and the next thing he knew he was waking up to blue-tinged morning light and the sound of upbeat, surprisingly jarring guitar riffs coming from a little clock radio on the nightstand by Taren's head. 

He glanced at the time, a very reasonable half eight. Beside him, Taren shifted and groaned and slumped into him, his eyes still closed. 

"Hey," Taren muttered, a smile curling onto his lips as he nuzzled his fluffy head into Dorian's chest -- stopping his heart again -- "'morning." 

He was afraid to move, feeling like if he so much as twitched his arm the whole spell would break, shattering the perfect picture like glass. Taren's bed sheets were faded blue and purplish-grey, dappled with spots of sunlight that snuck in through gaps in the curtains that revealed small hangings of coloured glass on his window. He gazed around the room, taking in the dreamy kaleidoscope patterns of light falling gracefully over pencil sketches and pastel drawings, clutter and clothes, then he looked down again at Taren's head as it groaned again against him, and lifted itself up. 

His hair looked hilarious. Bunched up shorter on one side, the waves folding in on themselves where it was long, and the short pieces brandishing themselves like swords into the air, this way and that. Some of it was ringletted, curly, while other pieces had been pressed flat, and all of it was haloed in a soft layer of frizz which turned bright orange as it caught hold of bits of sunlight. He stifled a laugh at the sight, and nothing shattered, but Taren did quickly corral his hair into a low bun, sweeping it back and fastening it with a tie he pulled from his wrist. Dorian was sad to see it go, but his heart mended once he realised that he could move — pull himself in to press his lips to the now-exposed length of Taren's neck — without any world ending consequences. 

After a few long, sleepy moments of growing want under bed sheets, the punk song on the radio ended and a voice began declaring the weather. Dorian pried himself away, staying the urge to shut it off and continue rolling around in bed all day, if only for the sake of Taren’s bruises. Taren got up and busied himself in a contented routine. He organized some of the clutter of clothes, then slowly slipped himself into something simple. Blue jeans, another soft looking pullover, this one a deep green, with the logo of some mountaineering company over the chest. Coordinated enough, though he seemed to pick out the ensemble without actually looking. He said something about there being towels in the bathroom cabinet and then he swept out of the room, leaving Dorian still sitting, soft sheets tossed around his calves, colourful sunlight speckling over his shoulder, in his bed. 

Dorian tried not to take too long making himself look presentable. The shower woke him and then for five minutes he debated if he should leave the toothbrush or not — it would be wrong to pocket it, right? — he’d never been terribly good at _following_ rules, but he was still used to knowing each and every one front to back so that he could break them strategically. His was an existence imposed upon by the written and unwritten alike; navigating it an art. Here, every trivial thing seemed boundless and complicated, he didn’t know where to hang up his towel or what to do with his toothbrush or how long he was supposed to stay or what he was supposed to do in three days, when he’d have to leave and work out what the _something_ was that came next, and the more he thought about it the more untethered he felt; he had to figure out the rules. 

He came out to an apartment that was bright with sunlight and smelled like fresh ground coffee. The crisp morning bounced around Taren’s living room, reflecting off the shine of the glass bottle of water on his kitchen table and soaking into the hardwood of his floors. Taren was hovering over a pan at his stove, a mug of steaming coffee beside him on the counter, a spatula in one hand. A second mug and the coffee press, just over half full, sat out on the table. They didn’t match; Taren’s had some cheerful slogan on it, a cheap novelty thing, while the one at the table still waiting to be filled was colourful and shapely, a rather lovely hand-crafted clay piece, and it was accompanied by a bowl of sugar and two small plates. He was supposed to keep on staying, then. The realisation lifted his spirits dangerously high off the ground, and he took a moment to regain confidence in his legs' ability to carry him to his seat. Then he sat down, poured himself a sizeable portion of black, steaming coffee, and sipped on it slowly. 

“There’s cream in the fridge if you want,” Taren said, glancing his way with an easy smile as he prodded at the pan with his spatula. Whatever was on it was sizzling softly, giving off a scent of cooking onions and spice that rumbled around in Dorian’s stomach. He shook his head, and took another slow sip of coffee, glad that he actually preferred it black, because the thought of making himself any more at home sent the hairs on his arms standing on end. 

Taren flipped the omelettes he was crafting with impressive precision, then turned off the heat and leaned back to take a sip of his own coffee, before setting the food out onto plates. It wasn’t exactly fine dining - he offered toast and butter and salt for the eggs, which didn’t need it, and fished forks out of a cluttered drawer and poured his water into the same mug he’d used for his coffee, but the food itself was haltingly delicious. 

“You’re trying to impress me again,” Dorian said, accusingly, after the first bite. He was mostly jesting, but that tinge of off-brand jealousy was rising in the back of his throat, and Taren’s ongoing unaffected hospitality still poked at him. 

Taren shrugged. “If I was trying to impress you I wouldn’t try to do it through my cooking,” he smirked, “but sure, a little. Otherwise breakfast would be leftover pie.” 

Banter helped. Dorian settled more fully into his seat, and returned the smirk with half a chuckle, eagerly taking up another mouthful of food. “I wouldn’t complain,” he said. 

They ate in contented silence for a while. Then, conversationally, Taren did one more unfathomable thing.

“Are you going to stick around for a while?” he asked, throwing the ball entirely into Dorian’s court, “I mean, I have to open up downstairs but it’s always slow in the mornings, it’s boring, but you’re welcome for as long as your protest allows.” he suggested, fully abandoning any notion of limits or rules or structure to this easy, incomprehensible day. 

Dorian stopped eating, and bored skeptically into Taren’s face with his eyes. He was smiling, like usual, and already moving on to talk about some next thing that Dorian entirely missed because his head was still spinning. 

“What?” Taren stopped, returning the look with sudden concern, “what’s wrong?” 

“There must be _rules_.” Dorian blurted out, before he could think of something more nonchalant to say. He stopped himself from continuing by clamping his teeth down tight. 

“What?” Taren said again, his smile now half fallen to confusion. 

“Never mind,” Dorian took an embarrassed sip of cold, lightly coffee-tasting water. 

“Rules?” Taren prodded him, clearly minding. 

“It’s nothing,” Dorian repeated, pushing the dilemma further away, but shaking his head in disbelief as he did. Taren was kind, and conversational, and impossibly easy going, and he knew all that already; but he was also… something more than that. Unreasonable in just how much he was _being_ all of that, this morning. Any way he lined it up, it didn’t follow. “I’m just — why _are_ you so hospitable?” 

It was a Taren issue, he decided. Normal people weren’t like this, even if you did agree to begin complicated romantic affairs with them. Normal people came with rules. And, not that he knew for certain, but complicated romantic affairs were supposed to come with even more of them. 

Taren’s brows bent inward in a wrinkle of deepened confusion for a moment, then he shook them back into an amused expression, and laughed. “It’s breakfast, Dorian,” he said, like it wasn’t the least bit unnatural, “or do you mean to say you’ve never had a boyfriend make you —” and he stopped, probably because Dorian choked on his water at that _word_ . Then Dorian flushed, because he was at _least_ twenty-nine years old (and therefore no longer counting), and that was the most juvenile, ridiculous, imbecillic thing to be choking over and — 

“Oh, shit. You haven’t.” Taren abruptly stopped laughing at him. 

“I’m not inept —” he was still beet red, he could feel it, and he tried desperately to regain some kind of control over this conversation “I simply like to know what I’m getting into,” he could still frame this as a Taren issue, and send that ball back to _his_ court, “you’re the one giving me a title.” 

Now Taren flushed, and Dorian felt a quick pang of guilt as he determined that he had once again said the wrong thing. His mind traced over the silly word again, shuddering. The truth was, as done with not saying things as he had decided to be, there were still mountains of things he couldn’t put to words. Questions, mostly, like _how_ do we do this and _what_ do we call it and _why_ was Taren not sweating nearly as much over it as he was? He had to leave still, in three days, and there wasn’t any blighted clarity as to how any of this was going to work. 

“Well,” he tried again, slowly, “ _are_ there rules?” 

Taren took a long sip from his mug, it had a bear on it. _Bear naked!_ , it said.

“Okay,” said Taren, placing the mug back down, “so we’re doing this over breakfast.” his cheeks were still slightly pink themselves, but he dove in anyway: “listen, I never meant to make you feel like this was an all-or-nothing thing,” he explained, embarrassment still evident in the way he glanced down at his coffee, but his voice was clear, “just be honest with me, that's all." he shrugged, and as he watched Dorian's face — which still felt hot and gawking as his brain went on skipping like a broken record over that word on his lips like it was nothing and the way Taren kept on just casually handling it all — his mouth picked back up into a mocking smile. Bastard. "You don't have to call it anything," he promised. 

The reassurance somehow made it worse. He could probably call it that, he thought, if he was supposed to. 

Apparently Taren was misinterpreting the as-yet unappeased look on his face, because he went on undoing things, "and if you want to still see people casually back in Tevinter, or whatever…" 

" — No!" Dorian interrupted, suddenly and much more forcefully than he meant to. He cleared his throat. "That's not — _you_ don't have an array of other tourists waiting in the wings, do you?" 

Taren laughed at that for what felt like ten minutes but was probably only one, while Dorian's cheeks grew hotter and hotter. "No." He said eventually, with heartening certainty. "Actually, I'm not very good at _casual_ ," he admitted with a touch of something that felt like nervousness, which in a schadenfreudian kind of way was also heartening, "but there aren't rules. I like you, I like this. I say we keep doing it, if that works for you." 

Dorian breathed. "Okay," he swallowed, " _this_ is fine." But he didn't feel any more grounded from it. More unmoored than before, if anything. What about all the rest — what about the rules that would impose themselves back upon him as soon as he left? 

"You really can't have this, in Tevinter?" Taren asked. He meant that same _this_ this; the breakfast and everything more, that Dorian was currently fumbling around in. 

Dorian shrugged, "some people can, maybe, but not without scrutiny. There's no marriage equality, people don't talk about it openly — of course there are always those who reject the politics and fight but..." he sighed, "it's not easy and it doesn't get far. Lots of blind faith and clinging to old ways." Taren nodded, understanding and pity on his face, casting a very uncomfortable shadow over the bright apartment. But he did have to get this said, now that he'd begun. "People like me, from families like mine,” he paused. Should tell him more about it, but — “well, I don't know that anyone's ever tried to get me to agree to it all quite so hard as you have." — couldn’t. He tried to keep his tone light, though the look didn't shift from Taren’s face and the shadow pressed in, "it's… not going to be easy." he said it warningly, even though they’d yet to actually define what _it_ was. "The wrong people catch wind and you might even end up in a tabloid. Tabloids love it when Halward Pavus' son rejects the life lined up for him." 

"But you do?" Taren was watching him seriously, "reject it, I mean. I don't want to ask for something you can't handle." 

I can't handle any of this, Dorian thought, but that wasn't in answer to the question Taren was asking. 

"Every chance I get," he moved his lips into a confident smile, hoping it would land despite the redness of his face, "I've always fought for… well. I've always rebelled, anyway." 

"Sounds lonely." 

Achingly, painfully, scream-until-you-can't lonely. "I manage." He said, trying not to let the smile go anywhere. 

"How?" Taren’s was gone, though. Replaced by a frown and more curiosity in his eyes than was good for either of them. 

"Drinking and _seeing people casually_ ," Dorian shrugged, "I've landed in all sorts of trouble for both." Taren didnt exactly look surprised, and Dorian knew what happened when one searched his name online; lots of exaggerated stories that made his sex life look much more fun than it was and his drug use much more habitual, but there were some rather large grains of truth there, too. Maker, he was going to be so very bad at this. Be honest with him, Taren had said, he wondered how much old air he'd have to clear first. "But I — that is, I'm not a dishonorable sort, whatever public opinion may be," 

"I didn't think you were." 

"And I'm serious about…" him, he was serious about him. "I want this, with you. I don't honestly know what more I can promise but --" 

"You don't have to promise me anything.” None of it was quite gone, the frowning or the curious eyes or the slight blush on his cheeks, but his voice was still clear. “I want to keep you in my life. We don't have to figure everything out at once." When he smiled again it was real. 

And that...actually did help. Not noncommittal and untethered, but uncomplicated. Dorian breathed again. He _was_ an adult, was he not? He could handle this, one step at a time. Taren took his hand, and for a second Dorian forgot about everything except it. If the world could only go on being bright sunny mornings and coffee, and he could go on feeling that sure press on his hand, he could probably call it anything.

Taren got up, his plate finished, and took his dishes to the sink. He came round to Dorian, kissed him like a breath of fresh air, and then he was moving again; cleaning up the pan from the stove and pouring himself more coffee (taking the last of it, but not before holding up the pitcher and offering it to Dorian) and downing it quickly. Then he was washing dishes, and grabbing something from the bedroom, and Dorian took the opportunity to check just how long he really could stay. He dug in his pocket for his phone, opening it to flip open the saved image of a complicated table telling him all the places he was supposed to be during his stay. More hours had opened up in the itinerary for personal time, especially considering that he was now fully intent on simply ignoring the more tedious busywork, but he still had some appointments to keep. 

Taren came back out from his bedroom again, a thick sketchbook under his arm. “Password’s red jenny three — threes for the E’s,” he noted helpfully. 

“You _have_ WiFi?” Dorian turned to him with his own mocking smile, casting his glance on the elegantly primitive cordless phone sitting in a charging station on the cabinet that he knew held that relic of a television. 

“I run a business,” Taren shot back, playful in return. 

“You have a tube television and a VCR.”

“Why would I have TV? I have internet.” Dorian rolled his eyes as Taren came back over to him, looking far too happy with his ridiculous self. “Changing your relationship status?” he teased. 

Dorian slipped the phone back into his pocket, stood up, and pulled the cheeky bastard right into a perfect kiss. “Yes,” he smirked brazenly back, “to ‘ _I hate you_.’” 

“No you don’t.” 

“No,” just one more, but with maybe too much feeling and not enough time to fully breathe, “I don’t.” 

\----

He didn't stay overlong. Taren unlocked the doors and turned on the shop lights, and they sat in the back for a while, just talking. Dorian looked at the art; new paintings, half finished carvings, things Taren had made and the products of other artisans too — Dorian was able to put a few more faces to the names now, ingratiated to the community as he had been. Taren sat with a chunk of wood and slowly turned it into a miniature halla, peeling away layers of wood with a sharp tool as he talked. It was truly fascinating, how his culture interacted with his art, and they wound up in something existential and intimate as they talked, comparing their experiences with faith, their thoughts on nature and the greater cosmos. It was a more comfortable thing, close and soul-bearing as it was, to talk about the theoretics of the universe and the importance of self-expression rather than romantic anxieties and social inequalities. Dorian knew about space and stars and astronomical wonders, while Taren knew about myths and ancient peoples, and those two subjects seemed to be able to come together to generate endless tangents in their conversation. Admittedly, the only art Dorian knew anything about was fashion, but Taren — to his surprise, given how the man dressed — allowed that it more than qualified, and gave an even more surprising amount of consideration to Dorian’s explanations of what a properly-coordinated outfit could say about a person; the little bits of language in dress. Then he looked down at his own haphazard stylings and asked what message they sent. Dorian chuckled, and told him he looked comfortable, and like it wasn’t something he gave any thought to whatsoever. He received no arguments. 

As the morning grew late the little bell above the shop door began to jingle more and more frequently, and Dorian hung back while Taren tended to customers. He was bright and friendly to each one, offering ready explanations for the Dalish art — tales and traditions, interesting tidbits of information about the meanings or histories behind the various kinds of crafts. He animatedly answered questions about the local lore; animals that represented spirits or virtues, paintings of dancers whose routines and dresses marked different occasions, and proudly advertised for dwarven members of the artists' collective practicing nearly-lost arts of stonecraft. It was fascinating to watch him work, more educator and artist than salesperson, absolutely no good at pushing the sell or working his charm, just genuine. He could have watched him carve and paint and talk about art for hours. 

But he couldn’t stay all day, much as he’d have liked, and soon he was getting his coat and saying a reluctant goodbye, though with much more ease around the place than he’d had earlier in the morning. He felt quite foolish, desiring to simply hang around Taren all day like some kind of needy, clinging nuisance, but all he could think as he gathered himself to go was that he wanted to return, to continue their conversations and uncomfortably-comfortable displays of affection as soon as he possibly could. 

Luckily, Taren voiced the same thought, and with no such shame. 

"Three days, right?" he remarked, hopeful and suggestive, "are you free later tonight?" 

Dorian would have laughed, if he weren't just as eager. "For you, I'm free every night." He tried to imbue the response with more honeyed charm than pure earnestness, and landed on something with a bit of both. Either way, Taren grinned. 

"Its supposed to be a clear night, we could watch the auroras." he was doing that impossibly sweet thing again: greedily asking Dorian on a date. "There's a lookout near the lodge, I could meet you." 

Taren was owed some payback, Dorian decided, a sly smile spreading itself effortlessly across his lips. "Alright," he said, "but allow me to buy you dinner first." 

"At the lodge?" Taren held surprise in his tone.

"It’s no seven-course potluck, but it ought to set the record a little straighter.” Dorian replied, still smiling; this part, he’d be good at — he was sure of it. And yet, Taren’s face did not light up with his genial smile, and instead remained uncertain. 

“I don’t want to cause you trouble,” he said, much too carefully, “if being seen there with me would be —” 

Dorian didn’t much care for that response at all, especially not for how it curled the edges of Taren’s lips into an uncomfortable frown and reminded him of all those still hovering doubts surrounding how he would make any of this work. “Taren,” he focused his gaze on the elf’s troubled eyes with all the rebellious certainty he could muster, “there are quite a few things about this that scare me, but being seen having dinner with you is not one of them.” he said. 

“Shouldn’t it be? I am just some knife-eared local, after all.” 

Ah, Dorian thought coldly, his fucking father, meddling in his happiness already. “You really do hear everything, don’t you?” he said, doing his best not to let the revelation daunt away any of his charm, but he could feel the smile slipping. 

“If it helps, I tried very hard not to hear about that.” Taren shrugged, “but Sera was proud of you.”

At that he had to laugh, “will wonders never cease?” he shook his head. 

“What about me does scare you?” Taren pressed, being once again far too curious. 

“Oh no,” Dorian crossed his arms and redoubled his effort to present a charming smile, “you're not getting any more admissions of sentimentality out of me until you agree to let me take you to dinner.” 

Then Taren did agree, with most of the uncertainty cleared away, and Dorian left to push through his afternoon appointments and to-do lists, feeling once again entirely ridiculous for being so eager, and wishing it could be evening already. 

\----

He managed to bribe himself into a reservation at the restaurant atop the lodge easily enough, and worked through the afternoon with considerably less than perfect focus, his mind still half in the stars — Taren had constellations tattooed on his skin and the promise of auroras in his deep green eyes. 

He showered a second time, groomed more fully and changed his clothes into an outfit that said classy, confident, but open — happy to be there. Black tie, as was the restaurant's wont, slick blazer and silvery grey shirt. The jacket he left unbuttoned; open, and he hid the tie under his subtly patterned silk scarf; wearing it again for _this_ date was supposed to say something else; something he’d much rather have his clothes say than work out himself. He checked his love of accessories, nothing too flashy — it wouldn’t be friendly and open to outshine his date — but ensured that his trousers were at least tight-fitting enough to keep his eye. 

Taren met him in the lobby, on time and almost unrecognizable. No suit, but decidedly on the business end of business-casual; a dress shirt, well-fitting trousers, and the _shoes_ ; polished leather and finely crafted, with even stitching, a quiet grain and deep, warm colour; unmistakably handmade. Dorian might even dare to call them fine art. His pieces all matched, but aside from the shoes the outfit wasn’t much more than ordinarily coordinated. He’d found a vest to accompany the dress shirt and it all came together with well chosen colours and contrast between the textures, but they didn’t quite fit perfectly — could use a good tailor. Cleaned up, Dorian thought, but still himself; auburn hair resting against earthy, muted colours that might not actually be Black Tie enough, but certainly made his eyes pop.

"Oh my," he greeted Taren with a quick smile, flashing him hungry teeth and an approving eye, "does this shirt button down?" 

Taren raised a hand to his hair, which he'd somehow sorted into a neat braid, and smoothed the bit of fly-away curl by his temple back behind his ear.

“Did my best,” he smiled, and Dorian basked in the way those eyes of his swept over him with exactly the kind of desire he had hoped for. 

“You don’t even own a tie, do you?” Dorian went on teasing, turning to lead Taren through the lobby towards the elevators. Taren shrugged as he pushed the button to call one up. 

“Nope,” he replied with more of that self-satisfied ease. The elevator came, and Taren stepped in, Dorian followed, unsure if he should laugh or offer to get him one of his own, to be safe. He’d packed one flecked with gold and green that would suit the ensemble perfectly, and he really didn’t want to have to argue with the host. It couldn’t be a stranger thing to offer than a toothbrush, could it? 

The elevator doors closed behind them, and as though oblivious to the dilemma he’d saddled Dorian with, Taren pushed the button marking the top floor. Then, rather abruptly shaking Dorian from said dilemma, he grabbed him by his wrist, pulled his arms into careful places at his hips, and pressed a kiss to his lips. It lasted only seconds, want flickering up and beating in his chest too fast to be tamped back down, and when he drew away Dorian couldn’t seem to move his hands.

“You’re supposed to wear a tie,” Dorian pointed out as the elevator dinged out its last note, reaching the top floor to deposit them before the entrance of the lodge’s famed restaurant, where a host in black tails waited to usher in guests who had either sat on waiting lists for months, or had the means to skip them. The lodge had several dining options for its guests; everything from a snack bar near the ski rentals to brunch offerings in the lounge, but the main attraction was this top-floor spot. It was one of a selection of venues under a celebrity brand, owned by a renowned star chef and reviewed at five stars by every culinary journal that mattered, as well as the ones that didn’t. A tricky place to get into. 

“No one has to know,” Taren left his arms with the swishing sound of the elevator doors opening, his own arms leaving their light resting place around Dorian’s neck, and taking his scarf with them. The silk slid slowly over his skin, and Dorian shivered. Then, always with that blighted smirk decorating his perfect lips, Taren wrapped it around his own neck, and stepped on out into the hall. 

Dorian shook his head and tried to laugh, but he still just _wanted_ too much for any of it to be funny. The scarf shouldn’t have matched, silk on heavy cotton, silver-grey on earthy brown, glimmering shadows of a secret pattern against plain, straightforward clothes, but somehow, it worked. 

They were guided to their table with nothing more than a polite nod, and Dorian slipped the host the customary tip, while Taren took his seat.

He hadn’t properly appreciated the restaurant’s view, last time. The table he’d shared with his father had been set much further back from the wall of clear windows that they were now placed at, and he’d been rather bitterly preoccupied. Now, he looked out, taking in the growing dusk. The sun had set hours ago already, and stars had been smattering themselves across the sky ever since, flooding the sky and seeming nearly to land upon the mountaintops. The faint lights of the auroras were just beginning to glow across the distant horizon, a hazy blush of green light misting at the snowy peaks. He sighed out in admiration.

“Quite the view,” he noted, eyes still gazing through the window. 

“Yeah,” across from him and not facing the window at all, Taren agreed, gazing admiringly at something else entirely — at him. The line was so _predictable_ , tired and overused, right out of a movie; something cheerfully romantic that Taren might stick into that old VCR of his. Terrible. His cheeks grew hot again. 

“Would you like some wine with your cheese?” he quipped, hiding his blush behind a drink menu. 

The food was excellent, and the company even better. Everything was going quite swimmingly, a glass of wine and a delightful appetizer accompanied them into quiet conversation, picking up right where they’d left off in the morning. Around them, other guests ate and drank in a similar peace; each table its own private romantic setting under dim, ambient light and barely-there notes of soft music. He’d never been out like this, comfortable and intimate, framed by warmth and a wide open sky. It felt nearly perfect, disquieted only by a needling voice in the back of his mind: _too good to be true._

And of course, it was. Not three bites into the main course, the scene broke. Halward Pavus arrived stern-faced and stiff-postured at their table before Dorian could see him coming. He’d been so entranced by candlelit conversation and rich wine that he hadn’t heard him stomping towards them, and the voice that interrupted his perfect date froze his own posture to ice. Scolding him like a child, saying something about missing him at an earlier meeting like an over-involved boss. _Vishante kaffas,_ but he was too old for this. 

His father’s eyes landed scathingly on Taren. “I knew that's what all this was about.” he growled. 

Dorian returned the scowl, his fists tensing. “I believe I have an official little timetable here that says this is my company-sanctioned free time.” he bit back, and pulled out his phone to emphasize his point. “Oh yes, would you look at that, work hours are over and I'm encouraged to make use of the fine facilities this company retreat has offered me access to. Wonderful. Goodbye.” 

Of course it didn’t work. “First you waste your money releasing this criminal from the consequences of his actions, and now you buy him dinner here? You're being hideously gouache Dorian, even for you." His father continued, then added in a low mutter, "never mind the rest of it."

Bile and pure, unadulterated rage hit the back of Dorian's throat. “The rest of it being his being a man? or perhaps an elf? We've been through this already, father. In this very dining room no less. Or shall I remind you?” he spat, the retort coming fast and sharp to his tongue, though he was all the while painfully aware that Taren was sitting right there across from him, eyes widening in response to their mutual tongue lashings. 

"You should be thanking me for your ability to be so publicly impudent, considering where the money for these endeavours comes from." Halward said next, still making no moves to retreat. And he was still staring down Taren, though his words all targeted Dorian, the intent of driving off his date through a wellhoned glare of intimidation was clear.

"I'll spend my money however I damn well choose," Dorian dismissed him once more, cultivating his tone to be both harsh and yet unaffected. Never let him see you squirm. "Once earned I do believe it is _mine_ " And earn it he certainly had, tending to mountains of work well below his qualifications, and often putting in sixteen hour days to wrestle with business that fell far above. 

He'd been a fool to think he could get away with this idyllic evening, but that didn't stop him from tensing with the unfairness of it; he'd been _careful._ His father shouldn't have been there at all. Halward was meant to be picking up his mother from the airport, as she’d been scheduled to arrive that evening in order to take in some brief hotspring-sitting and lounge-drinking before the New Years Gala she’d agreed to attend. Perhaps she had stood him up; it would certainly explain the tinge of sour whiskey soaking Halward’s heated breath. 

Halward continued to focus his ire unfairly on Taren, his cold gaze narrowing as Taren looked patiently back, face still remarkably composed. "Do try to appreciate the finery you've been treated to by my son, I'm sure it's well out of your experience, but you should know his lavish tastes are supported by a great lineage of better men." he sneered, insulting emphasis on the consonants of each sharp word.

Taren's eyes focused into a hard look of their own, a crease forming between his brows as Dorian, unable to stand any more, pushed himself back from the table and suddenly stood, finally grabbing back that scowling attention. 

"Don't you dare talk to him like that — " he began, voice rising, but stopping short as Taren stood too. 

"Thank you, but I'm quite familiar with the wonderful attractions of my home," he said, polite, even toned, and so scathing Dorian nearly did a double take, "and to be honest with you, ser, I don't think I've ever met a better man than your son."

Dorian tried not to stare open-mouthed as the words crashed into him like a swift kick; his gut _hurt._

"Don't kid yourself," Halward Pavus looked nearly as shocked, and his face was colouring to a familiar shade of red, that same dent coming between his brows, evil creases at his scowling lips, "to him you are a mere perversion — or didn't he tell you about his copious sordid affairs?" 

His aching, plummeting gut. "That's quite enough —" Dorian had nearly reached a shout, wordless rage boiling over, he was very close to losing any semblance of wit and simply slamming into his father with every curse word he knew, or perhaps just with his fist, when he was interrupted once more. 

"Ser, I am afraid I am going to have to ask you to leave," the voice was formal, cool, collected, and dripping with disdain. The woman it belonged to was tall, her dark skin glittering with accentuating gold powder on the eyelids and cheekbones, and her high-held head adorned with a tall white hat. The famed proprietor of the acclaimed restaurant, a celebrity in her own right: Vivienne de Fer. She cocked one perfectly painted eyebrow, "and to refrain, in the future, from interrupting the dining experiences of my esteemed guests." 

"Esteemed guests? Do you have any idea to whom you speak?" Halward spun in place, directing all that redness and rage now to the chef, but if Dorian had learned anything from the few episodes of competitive cooking television he'd seen the woman star in, this was a bad idea. 

"Do _you_?" The arched brow, the perfectly raised chin, the soft chill over her tone that seemed to still all the air about her; the real-life Madame de Fer did not disappoint. "This is my establishment, Lord Pavus, and I will not ask you again to respect it." His wine glass would shatter, Dorian was certain, if she decided to turn that same gaze on it. 

Targeted so, Halward did not quite shatter, but his composure certainly suffered grave wounds. Blustering and sputtering, he protested the treatment, "you would risk the patronage of a member of Tevinter high society for some baseborn elf?" 

"That elf is a pillar of this community, and a close personal friend." Remarked the chef without so much as a flinch. "Your patronage is more than welcome, with a reservation, which you do not have. I would recommend that you leave now before I am forced to have you removed." 

And then he did, stuttering and fuming and all but growing a tail to tuck between his legs; it was magical. Dorian sat back down feeling rather dazed. He reached instinctively for his wine.

Vivienne de Fer turned her attention wholly to Taren, and like a cloud passing to reveal the sun, her face changed. A warm, concerned smile centered over his date, and when the remarkable woman spoke again, it was with fussy concern. "Are you alright, my dear?" 

Now, Taren blushed. Dorian took a sip of wine, still feeling a bit like he was on reality TV, waiting for reality to kick back in. "Fine, Viv. I had it." Taren said, sitting too. He called her _Viv._

 _Vivienne de F_ er responded with a thoughtful, suspicious hum. "I would have thought you above slumming it with such cretins," she remarked with tempered disdain, casting just half an icy glance at Dorian, "no accounting for taste I suppose." Dorian felt a scowl rise to his lips, but he held his tongue. "Regardless, I'll see to it that both of you are able to enjoy the remainder of your meal in peace. On the house, of course." she announced with certain, thoughtful clarity, her eyes soft on Taren again. Then, as effortlessly as she had appeared, she swished away, leaving a murmuring wake of turning heads behind her until she dramatically exited through the swinging doors to her kitchen. 

Taren was still blushing, looking down at his food and tapping a fork against the tablecloth awkwardly. Dorian stared at him. 

"How the bloody hell do you know Vivienne de Fer?" Dorian demanded, hushed and utterly aghast. 

Taren shrugged. "We met at a charity gala when I was in university," he replied, still looking at his plate, "she was expanding her restaurant empire and I showed her pictures of the mountains and she said something about needing to pair the view with a fine wine and canapes." He shrugged yet a second time, overexplaining, "she bought the space here a couple years later and commissioned those," he pointed, and in utter dumbfounded shock, not to mention embarrassment for having _missed it_ , Dorian looked up at the ceiling of the restaurant to find it decorated with an intricately carved chandelier of branching wood and incandescent light. With a third shrug, which was one too many, Taren went on, "lucky that she was in town, she tends to travel from restaurant to restaurant…" 

"Bullshit," Dorian interrupted, and he didn't know whether to laugh or shake his head in defeat, so he did both, "you knew she would be here. You always know everything going on in this place."

As though another shrug could cover it, Taren offered one up. "It's a very small town," he mumbled. 

Dorian sighed, and settled on simply shaking his head again, defeated. "Mark my words, I'm still going to buy you dinner, one of these days." he promised. He took another sip of his wine. 

Taren let out a quiet breath of nervous laughter. "You want to come to board game night tomorrow? I’ll let you buy my share of the pizza." he offered, joining him in a sip of wine and words that conspicuously ignored all that had just transpired. "Board game night?" Dorian repeated, disjointed hesitancy between every word. 

"You know: friends, pizza, beer, board games." Taren explained, listing things that did indeed add up to a familiar concept, though Dorian couldn't recall the last time he'd attended such an event. "We have to celebrate our release from jail somehow." 

"You plan to celebrate that with a board game night?" 

Taren nodded, "it’s more fun than it sounds,” he was flashing him a smile again, a very tempting smile, “do you want to come?”

“I'm not sure your friends fully approve of me.” Dorian replied, feeling still rather stunned, in more than one way. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.” He wondered, absently, if _Viv_ attended board game nights. There was no possible way. 

“Give them a chance,” said Taren, still smiling encouragingly, still moving on from the scene that had just unfolded without hesitation. 

“Very well,” Dorian did his best to join him in the unbothered making of plans, “but I hope you know that I won't go easy on you. And if there are to be word games, I will wipe the floor with you.” He promised, successfully planting a confident smile back on his face and lowering his tone to that of a flirtatious threat. 

Taren laughed, a sound that seemed to come to him as easy as breathing. “I'd like to see you try.” he replied. 

“What should I bring?” Moving on, moving on, moving on, he thought, setting his gaze forward with purpose. 

“That competitive spirit, money for pizza.” Taren grinned, moving on. 

But they couldn't settle. Dorian picked at his food, no longer as appetizing, and across from him Taren tapped his foot. The quiet ambience of the restaurant became deafening, the continued stares of nearby patrons palpable. 

Dorian sighed. That was the evening ruined, then. 

Suddenly, Taren spoke up. “Hey, let's go,” he suggested, brighter than he had any right to be, “there's still something I want to show you.” 

Dorian nodded and followed, quietly wondering all the way down from the restaurant, through the lobby and then the parking lot, why Taren still wanted anything to do with him at all. 

Taren led him to his van, dragging him by the hand once they stepped outside, and not releasing him until he needed to fish his keys from his pocket. Dorian watched silently out the window as they drove, brooding out at the dark lines of trees along the side of the road, and blinking back as bright, shining eyes looked out at him from the forest. 

Taren drove carefully, winding away up and east. He turned onto a dark, unmarked road and then off of it into a snow-packed clearing at the edge of a sheer cliff. Dorian looked out to where the land fell away, seemingly, directly into the glowing sky. 

The auroras danced like colourful satin scarves across the sky, weaving between the stars in green and blue and faint hues of violet, making slow waving shapes, anchored by one long, broad and sweeping smoke of bright emerald green that seemed to trail out from some hidden place behind the peak of a far mountain; the tallest of the three overshadowing Lavellan Valley. Light streaked up and down in cascades of living colour, and it took Dorian several moments to realise that he’d begun holding his breath. Taren reached a hand across to him, clasping Dorian’s as he leaned back, and quieted the engine of his van. Dorian breathed out. 

“It’s beautiful,” he said. 

“Yeah,” Taren agreed through a quiet breath, and this time he was looking out, the light reflecting in his starry eyes. Dorian watched his face, and found he had trouble returning his own gaze to the sky. 

Then Taren got out, and walking around to the side of his van, he opened a side door and began to rummage around, pulling out blankets and pillows and sorting them into a pile on the edge of the van’s floor. Dorian followed him, and joined him in a seat among the cushions, looking out. 

Taren nestled himself comfortably into Dorian’s side, feeling despite all Dorian’s better judgement like he was meant to be there. He wrapped them both up in a collection of heavy, warm fabrics; a thick, unzipped sleeping bag of smooth synthetic material and fleece over their shoulders, and a heavy blanket of some sturdy animal’s heavy fur over their knees, and under it all, his hand found Dorian’s, and took it once more. The air was cold on his nose and cheeks, but every other part of him filled with comfortable warmth, right down into the core of his being. He sighed. Stars and spirits filled the sky, twirling around in his vision, lulling him almost into a trance, but at the back of it all he still heard that whispering voice. The quiet stretched out, and a residual ache throbbed in his gut. Taren’s head bent to rest on his shoulder, his thumb stroking the skin of Dorian’s hand under the heavy fur pelt, but Dorian’s focus was divided. He should say something, he thought, though he didn’t know what. Thank him for his defence, apologize, explain. A way out, offered the voice in the back of his mind; he should offer Taren a way out. 

He sighed again, gearing up to speak. 

“Do we have to talk about race and old-fashioned exclusionary Tevinter politics now?” Taren breathed beside him, apparently sensing the oncoming uncomfortable speech, and somehow amused by it, “because that might be too much for one day.”

Dorian stopped, and a laugh snorted itself through his closed mouth. “Maker,” he breathed, regretfully, “I do apologize for the display, not exactly the night I had hoped to have.” he frowned, “what you must think of me now —” what _must_ he think? The incomprehensible elf was, for some reason, still holding his hand. 

“You stood up for me.” Taren noted, quiet and serious. “Again. And to all of _that_.” he shook his head over the words, “I thought Sera was exaggerating.” 

Dorian smothered the lurching thing in his gut under a quick response, “I am rather valiant, didn't I tell you?” Or so he ought to be; a dark, spreading guilt still picked at the back of his mind. “You really didn't need much help though, did you? You and your close personal friend, Viv.” 

“Maybe, but you did.” Taren lifted his head from Dorian’s shoulder and pressed his lips to Dorian’s cold cheek, then to the edge of his lips, warm and wanting. Dorian turned into it, forgetting to breathe again as their lips locked and hands clasped and the sky danced. The kiss deepened, mouths parting to allow their tongues to meet, ending in a slow, longing pull of teeth on lips. 

“You were rather heroic on my behalf yourself. Can’t say I'm used to the help,” Dorian pressed his forehead into Taren’s as he returned the thanks, his heart fluttering and gut still remembering the pain of it all. Why _had_ he said that? And why did it still hurt? 

“You shouldn’t be used to any of that.” There was a quiet fury buried in the reply, his words a deadly serious whisper, eyes steady on his own and alight with fierce certainty. That dragging pain pulled through him again, and he crashed into Taren to quell it without a single coherent thought, just need. 

Taren fell back with the force of his kiss, into the pile of cushions and soft fur spread about them, his hand releasing Dorian’s only to fly to the back of his head and pull him down, and under. 

He was careful, gentle, aware of the fact that Taren was still bruised and aching under all that soft fabric, but very much unable to stop. Taren didn’t seem to mind, pulling him closer and gripping into his body with firm hands, slipping them under his carefully chosen clothes, wandering with his lips to Dorian’s throat, humming into each new hungry kiss. 

Dorian’s anxious thoughts were whisked away, erased by sensation and desire, and all his concentration bent towards keeping his exploration light; not revealing too much skin to the cold, or pushing too hard against any part of him that could still hurt. There was kissing and laughter and touching under blankets, fumbling into trousers without pulling them away. He forgot about the rest of it; the cliff dropped sheer into the open sky, and so did everything else. It was just him and Taren and the brilliant night, and he was happy, happy and free and full, guts or heart or soul or _something_ recovering from its ache and tingling in giddy excitement. Endless moments of it passed them by, maybe the most fun he’d ever had, fooling around in a van on this frozen cliff in the middle of nowhere, where nothing could touch them but stars. 

“Taren,” he breathed through a smile, the taste of him still coating his tongue like honey. 

“Yes?” 

“We're making out in the back of your van while parked up at some lookout point.” He stated, close to laughter again. 

Taren grinned and kissed his lips, “so we are,” he agreed. 

“Like teenagers in an old movie,” Dorian continued. 

“Or very rambunctious tourists.” Taren allowed, pressing his smile into Dorian’s neck. 

He hummed under it, “you do understand that this _is_ utter nonsense, don’t you?” 

“Yeah,” Taren agreed once more, still kissing him with smiles, “it kind of is. Too much?” 

“No, not at all.” 

Anything. For more of this, he’d stand up to anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Vivienne is the Iron Chef and I think I'm hilarious.  
> This fic has three chapters left oh my god.

**Author's Note:**

> Taren is my Inquisitor, he features mainly in Shall We Not Revenge, which is slightly more canon-compliant than this and also absurdly long. He's also a pretty proud Dalish elf, and just because I've thrown him into a modern au doesn't mean he loses that, or that the relationship he forms with Dorian doesn't still directly result from what a goddamn nerd he is about it. With that in mind, I've always tried to write Taren and the influences I know are there in the Dalish lore with respect. This story, being a modern au, makes those real-world influences stand out a bit more, and while everything is generically Thedas-ish and I'm still pulling a bit from the canon "Dalish" stuff, he's obviously going to read as coming from that sort of blend of cultures that DA took from to create the Dalish. Being from one of those cultures, its something I tend to like to play with and try to "do right". This is a purely self indulgent and escapist fic. I'm not going to totally deconstruct Dragon Age to do this thing, but I'm also always trying to represent my characters' backgrounds with tact. That doesn't mean something might not still come across wrong. If it does, just let me know, I'd love to chat about how to create better representation, even in my self-indulgent and fluffy little stories.


End file.
